Guns 'n' Rose

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Genius. I’m talking to a genius.’ Norton shook his head in admiration. ‘Jimmy, how much do you reckon you could tug in with a scam like that?’

  ‘How much?’ Jimmy peered into his wine glass for a second. ‘Say fifty from the Arts Council. The Miles Franklin and the Vogel—another forty. You’d have to take out the Nita B. Kibble. Another twelve. Book sales? Over a hundred K. Not counting overseas. Shit! I reckon you’d be looking at around quarter of a million.’

  ‘Quarter of a million bucks? Have you got a typewriter in that bag, Jimmy? We’ll knock the fuckin’ thing out before you go back in the nick.’

  ‘Why don’t we go one better again, Les? Do another version where girl meets boy. Girl loses boy. Girl gets boy back again. Boy undoes girl’s bra-strap in the last three pages and we’ll flog it to Mills and Boon.’

  ‘Did I say genius?’ Norton threw back his hands. ‘There’s a biro in my bag. You fill out the application form for the Arts Council. I’ll find a list of gay bars in Baghdad and start the research.’

  ‘Why don’t we have a swim first, Les, and cool off?’

  ‘I think that might be a good idea, Jimmy.’

  They splashed around in the pool, drank more booze, ate more prawns and listened to more Jimmy Buffett. By then the afternoon was just about shot. Les made another Bacardi and thought he’d better see what Jimmy had planned for the evening.

  ‘So what’s on tonight, James? It’s obvious by now you’re the brains of the outfit.’

  ‘Well, naturally we’ll be having a nice dinner, Les.’

  ‘I tipped that. Where are we going?’

  ‘I’m taking you to a non-smoking restaurant, Les. The Mail Drop. It used to be the old Terrigal post office.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. How does a non-smoker go up here, Jimmy? Those two windbag, know-alls on radio reckon if they make restaurants non-smoking it’ll be the end of civilisation, big brother taking over and the restaurants’ll all go broke.’

  Jimmy gave Les a peeved look. ‘You don’t take too much notice of them, do you? Does McDonald’s look like they’re going bad? I had to ring up before I got out of the nick to get us a table.’

  ‘Good one, mate. And what do you fancy doing afterwards?’

  ‘Not much. I had a late one last night and I got a nice day lined up for us tomorrow. Another surprise for you.’

  ‘There’s an over-thirties disco on down the road. You want to have a look? You could pass for thirty with a bit of luck.’

  ‘Club Algiers? Yeah, I saw the sign outside the hotel.’ Jimmy gave a chuckle. ‘So you want to try and hit on some more feral aunties, do you, Les?’

  ‘Yeah. See if I can find Aunty Megan and rekindle the spark of love between us.’

  ‘After Jimmy Superstud’s been there? You’re kidding, aren’t you, Les. She wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. Unless she was pissing kerosene.’

  ‘I still wouldn’t mind having a look, though.’

  ‘Okay. But I’m not having a late one. If you want to kick on, go for your life.’

  ‘No. I’ll stick with you. Is your man coming to get us?’

  Jimmy nodded. ‘Of course. Would you like a lift? Or would you prefer to follow us down in the Berlina.’

  ‘No, I’ll come with you. I’ll even sit down the back with you. I just thought I’d slip that one in, Jimmy. Between mates.’

  Jimmy drained the last of his wine. ‘Droll, Les. Verrry droll.’

  They cleaned up round the pool and got rid of the prawn shells. Les took his washing in, then they watched the news over a cup of coffee and started getting their shit together. The idea of not having a late one now appealed to Les. He wasn’t dog tired, but sitting in the sun all afternoon drinking cool ones had taken the edge off him just a little. And who knows what Jimmy had lined up for him tomorrow? After a relaxing shower and shave, Les changed into a pair of jeans, a crisp, white long-sleeved shirt and his spiffing new vest. No, he thought, standing in front of the mirror after daubing himself with Jamaican Island Lyme, I won’t grab anything down there tonight. I’ll just let them know what they missed out on. If Les looked good, Jimmy looked ten times better when Les found him listening to the stereo and gazing out the window in the loungeroom. He was wearing a black T-shirt with a brown boomerang motif across the front, tucked into a pair of black, silk Dolce and Gabbana trousers with a crocodile-skin belt and matching crocodile-skin loafers. Sitting snugly over this was a soft, black leather James Dean jacket with brown snake skins sewn into the front, shoulders and back and piped round the sleeves.

  ‘Don’t tell me the rat made that,’ said Les.

  Jimmy nodded. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  Norton was going to say something when there was a polite knock on the door.

  The Mail Drop was in a side street that ran towards the ocean just behind the resort. Jimmy told the limo driver he’d ring when they were ready and they walked up the front steps to the foyer. Apart from a lick of paint here and there, the owners hadn’t tried to hide that the restaurant was an old government building and the red bricks, high columns and metal railing out the front only seemed to enhance the building’s charm from yesteryear. Les pushed the glass door open and they went inside. Hanging lights shone down from the high ceiling. The kitchen, wine racks and counter were on your right as you entered, and the place was full. The walls were painted in earthy browns and limewashed white; green carpet ran beneath the cedar chairs and tables with matching cedar Venetian blinds. In one corner sat a fireplace with a mirror above and a clock and other bric-a-brac on the mantelpiece. The old, govemment-style building and the earthy colours gave the restaurant a natural warmth and charm, but not having to peer round the tables through a haze of blue cigarette smoke gave it something else—a brightness and freshness you could almost feel.

  Two waiters in black trousers and black Mail Drop T-shirts hovered round the tables, then an attractive girl with neat dark hair, wearing black slacks and a brown top, appeared behind the counter.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said with a pleasant smile.

  ‘Hello,’ replied Jimmy. ‘I made a booking for two. Rosewater.’

  The girl checked the reservation list. ‘Right on time, Mr Rosewater. This way please.’

  She ushered them to a table in the corner, sat them down and left them with the wine list. Les ordered a bottle of Grolsch. Jimmy thought he’d try the Diamond Valley Pinot Noir. Both arrived promptly.

  ‘Well, here’s looking up your old address, Mr Rosewater,’ said Les, taking it all in. ‘And you’ve done it again. I’m impressed.’

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ said Jimmy, ‘it’s the first time I’ve been here, but I thought you might like it, Mr Norton.’

  There were enough scrumptious-sounding things on the menu to choose from. But seeing as Les ate most of the prawns earlier he wasn’t all that screaming hungry, so he just went for Oysters Natural with lime, cracked pepper and flat bread for starters. Then Grilled Barramundi with lemon, thyme butter and potato fennel wedges. Jimmy was a bit keener on the tooth. He went for the Deep Fried Tiger Prawns with Red Curry Sauce on Asian Greens and Muscovy Duck in Cointreau Orange Sauce with a Compote of Autumn Mustard Fruits. Coffee and sweets were even a distinct possibility.

  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 ple
nty 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 bourbo
ns 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.