Guns 'n' Rose

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Well, how was that, Les?’ asked Jimmy over his cup of coffee.

  ‘Like I said before, Jimmy,’ replied Les. ‘You’ve done it again. Fan-fuckin’-tastic.’

  ‘Yeah, not bad. Not bad at all.’ Jimmy eased back in his chair, adjusted his sunglasses, then looked around him like he owned the place.

  Norton watched him over his coffee for a moment. ‘So you got bunged up over some dodgy outboards, eh, Jimmy?’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Jimmy. ‘I was a bit stiff.’

  ‘A mover and shaker like you, I’m surprised you couldn’t have done a bit of business there.’

  ‘Not on that particular occasion, I couldn’t,’ said Jimmy. ‘Not that you can’t up here. Christ! If ever ICAC go through this joint, it’ll make Kings Cross look like tea and cakes at Government House.’

  ‘Yeah,’ smiled Les, ‘I saw one of your local wallopers on TV the other week. Or glimpses of him on video. He was in a brothel getting his bat sucked, snorting coke, watching a porno movie while he tried to buy some ecstasy for his mates. I was talking about it with some cops in Sydney and even they were laughing.’

  ‘The go up here, Les, is to get on the board of some registered club as a director, then wash all the drug money through the club. It’s their favourite rort. All ICAC’s got to do is find out which cops are directors of clubs up here and go through all their bank statements with a computer. There’d be bent cops going everywhere. I’d love to see it.’

  ‘The way things are going, Jimmy, you probably will.’

  ‘Yeah. So what’s Jamaica like again?’ said Jimmy, changing the subject.

  ‘Jamaica? All up, Jimmy, I don’t think you’d like it very much. Even being an abo.’

  Les related a few more things to Jimmy about his time in Montego Bay. He even added a bit about Florida. Jimmy appeared interested and seemed to get a laugh here and there. But when Les told him about Hank and all his guns Jimmy’s ears pricked up and he started asking questions about the type, the calibre and the ammunition. Les didn’t need any more proof that Jimmy was interested in guns and ammo. On one hand Les was enjoying himself, sitting back amongst the beautiful surroundings telling Jimmy yarns about overseas. On the other hand it seemed somewhat hypocritical, being sugar sweet and lulling Jimmy into a false sense of security when he was going to give him a good gobful later on and a crisp backhander for being a fuckin’ little smartarse. Jimmy would probably think Norton was schizophrenic. Then again, knowing Jimmy, he’d probably take no notice at all, tell Les to get fucked himself and brush it off with his usual sardonic insouciance. Even now when he was talking, Les felt that though Jimmy was looking at him he was thinking of something else half the time, probably playing him for a mug. A word or two with Jimmy’s fat uncle when Les got back to Sydney would definitely be on the cards.

  Before long the afternoon had started to slip away and most of the other diners had drifted out of the restaurant. Jimmy looked at his watch and mentioned it to Les. Les paid the bill, left a hefty tip, seeing everything was so nice, and they started walking back home the way they came.

  Again Norton fell behind and let Jimmy set the pace; Jimmy was stepping along quite smartly and after such a big meal the walk felt good and Les was enjoying it. Nothing much was said. Jimmy seemed to be thinking and was looking around at the trees, the sky, the houses, taking it all in. Now and again Jimmy would turn around, look at Les for a moment as if maybe he was going to say something, then turn away again and keep walking. Les could only guess what was on Jimmy’s mind. As they walked past the doors of the Silver Conche Les was expecting Jimmy to make another remark about Megan. But this time he kept quiet. Les was half thinking of being smart himself and speciously suggesting they come there for dinner one night before the holiday ended; then thought why bother? Next thing they were back inside the house.

  ‘I’m going to get changed and sort a few things out,’ said Jimmy, glancing at this watch. ‘I’ll see you at four.’

  ‘Righto,’ answered Les.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What am I going to do?’ The way Jimmy spoke, Norton began to feel as if he was giving him orders or looking down on him. What fuckin’ business is it of yours what I do, you little prick, Les thought. ‘I might lie on the bed and read my book for a while.’

  Jimmy nodded and gave Les a look of grudging approval. ‘Yeah, I’ve done that before today,’ he said, then turned and walked down the stairs.

  Les went to his bedroom and wondered what he should do. Why not do what he just said? Read his book. After all that food, he’d sink if he had a swim and Sunday afternoon TV is generally tres ordinaire. Les propped some pillows up at the end of the bed, opened The Hand that Signed the Paper and started reading. After twenty or so pages of Stangl, the herr kommandant, organising the killings while Vitaly porked Magda Juskowiak in the hay loft, it was time to make a move. Les placed the book back in his bag, put his shirt on, straightened the bed and went out to the kitchen. Jimmy was standing near the sink sipping a glass of water in his sunglasses. But instead of his usual sartorial elegance, he was wearing black jeans, black Reeboks and a dark green army jacket with angled pockets on the front. At his feet was his overnight bag; it looked full and sticking out one end was the handle of the stockwhip. For a moment Les flashed onto some movie he’d seen on TV lately.

  ‘You know who you remind me of, dressed like that, Jimmy?’ he said, half having a little dig at Jimmy about his clothes.

  ‘No. Who?’

  ‘Michael Douglas in Falling Down.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, I haven’t seen the movie,’ he replied, not sounding very interested. ‘I’ve got to see a couple of blokes while I’m over there. Just some business, that’s all.’ Jimmy took a mouthful of water. He was talking softly, yet he seemed agitated or nervous. Les couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but he almost looked like he was speeding.

  ‘Whatever.’ Les shrugged and before he could say anything else there was a polite knock on the door.

  ‘Righto,’ said Jimmy, picking up his overnight bag, ‘Let’s go to the bike show and see the band.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  They walked outside, Jimmy said something to the limo driver and they got in the back.

  Not used to being driven around much during the daytime and especially in a nice, comfortable limousine, Les sat back and enjoyed it. Next to him Jimmy still seemed on edge, tapping his foot on the floor, fiddling at his bag sitting on his lap while he stared straight ahead working his jaw muscles. Les watched him out the side of his eye and tried to suss him out. He was going over to this hotel for two reasons besides the band and the old bikes. The stockwhip was just for some friend or whatever, but he also had to see some bikie or bikies about unloading the machine guns and you could bet they’d be as nutty as fruitcakes and a bit unpredictable. So naturally he was nervous. They were just as likely to shoot him and just take the things. Maybe that’s why he brought Les along. To look like he had a backup of some description. It was doubtful the swap would be that afternoon. They’d come back in the limo and it would be later that night, when it was quite dark. The bikies would get a surprise when they came round and found Jimmy in the kitchen mopping blood from his face for a change and his red-haired backup nowhere in sight. Les might even piss the fuckin’ machine guns off. Price didn’t need that sort of shit going down in his house. As for Jimmy’s outfit, you could bet the punters at the hotel would be pretty much pie and peas, and getting around looking like a Stuart Membery model, Jimmy would stick out like the proverbial dog’s knackers. Yes, mused Norton, these evil webs of deception we weave. Where do they get us? All webbed up and no place to go. He looked at Jimmy and smiled. It was a bit of a buzz watching young master James squirming around, trying to act cool and all the time Les knowing exactly what the little shit was up to.

  They cruised along in spacious, air-conditioned silence. Les watched the trees and valleys go past and picked out a couple of p
laces he remembered from when he first got to Terrigal; like a fruit stall on the side of the road and the turn-off to where he and Jimmy went linedancing. Next thing they turned right at a roundabout and Les thought he recognised the corner with the little church on it that they visited when he drove Jimmy down from the gaol. Jimmy had mentioned where they were going, but not being familiar with the area Les had forgotten it was on the way. The limo pulled over in the driveway.

  ‘I won’t be long.’ Jimmy took his bag and got out as the driver opened the door.

  ‘Take your time,’ said Les, not feeling he was invited along this time. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  Les watched Jimmy go through the gate and mellowed out a little towards him. Yes, mused Norton, it’s only natural that he’d want to visit his mother’s grave. It’s on the way and it is Sunday. And I suppose you can’t really blame him for a life of crime; he does come from a broken family. That’s why I won’t break his rotten little neck.

  About twenty minutes later Jimmy returned and got back in the limo.

  ‘How are you feeling now, mate?’ said Les. ‘Everything okay?’

  Even from behind his dark glasses, Jimmy’s infectious smile seemed to almost light up the back of the car. ‘Everything’s fine, Les,’ he said. ‘Everything’s just great.’

  ‘That’s good, Jimmy.’

  Jimmy’s smile seemed to radiate a little more. ‘In fact, I think it’s going to be a fantastic day, Les. I really do.’

  ‘Like I said, Jimmy, that’s good. I’m glad.’

  The limo eased back in amongst the Sunday afternoon traffic and a few minutes later the driver turned left at another roundabout near a McDonald’s and a KFC and they were there.

  The hotel was on the right-hand side of a short, sealed road that was all bush and trees on the left before it turned into dirt and disappeared into more bush and trees about two hundred metres or so down the end. It was a single-storey building with a wellkept median strip out the front and two tarred parking areas split in the middle by a driveway that led to an outdoor bottle shop. At the end towards the bush was an Asian restaurant called the China Doll and next to a tree near the median strip was a sign saying Broadwater Hotel Resort. The limo pulled up just before the bottle shop. Les and Jimmy got out, then the driver headed back towards the roundabout. Both parking areas were full of cars with the odd motorbike here and there and a few people walking around who gave them a glance or two as they got out. A short set of steps ran up past the bottle shop into a tiled courtyard with a bistro lounge on the left, an enclosed area full of video machines and a couple of bars on the right. The courtyard was nicely laid out with trees and plants, a barbecue in the middle and palm trees at the far end. Quite a few people were seated or standing around a smattering of white plastic chairs or tables and a flash of chrome amongst some people milling around beyond the palm trees at the end suggested to Les that this was where all the vintage motorbikes were. More people were coming out of the bars on the right carrying drinks and Les was about to say something when Jimmy hoisted his bag over his shoulder and nodded towards the bistro lounge. Les followed him across.

  A row of glass windows and doors covered with posters advertising coming bands ran down the side. There was one for Zipper Mushrooms that day from three till six which meant they’d missed the first bracket. Inside it was bright and roomy with a high, white angled ceiling, a colonial brick bistro on the left doing a brisk trade as you entered and on the opposite side a long, wooden bar with brass poles supporting a wooden canopy full of indoor plants and signs for Millers Draught, Big Red and Crown Lager. Behind the bar was a long open verandah and beyond that a large, grassy area that led to a wide bay that Les guessed was the Broadwater. A smattering of chairs, tables and stools led to a dance floor and a low stage at the end with stage lights on scaffolding above and a thick, black curtain for a backdrop. Sitting on the stage were the band’s instruments and some kind of rock music was playing softly through the speakers. The hotel in general was bright, clean and modern and looked like quite a pleasant venue to have a drink, a meal or whatever. And as Les had predicted earlier, the punters were dressed pretty casual, mainly jeans, shorts and surfing T-shirts. Some girls wore denim skirts or cotton dresses, but mainly dressed the same as the men. Jimmy appeared to be searching the faces, nodding a hello here and there and getting a hello nodded back in reply. Norton thought he might as well have a beer or two while they were there.

  ‘You want a drink, Jimmy?’ he asked.

  Jimmy nodded. ‘Yeah, get us a delicious, will you.’

  The bar was three deep, but it didn’t take long and Les was back with a Tooheys long neck and a Jack Daniels and Coke.

  ‘Why don’t we go outside and have a look at the old bikes?’ said Jimmy, taking a sip of his drink. ‘The band doesn’t start for a while yet.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Les followed Jimmy back into the courtyard and out the end past the palm trees.

  Outside was a large, grassy area that led down to the water’s edge. A wall of pine logs faced the courtyard and behind that was a tennis court surrounded by trees. Solid wooden tables and benches were spread around another covered barbecue near a pine-log cubbyhouse for the kids to play in and near the log wall was a row of coloured, plastic slippery-dips. People were wandering around everywhere, pennants fluttered in the breeze and a sign above the barbecue saying ‘Welcome to the Broadwater Classic Motorbike Rally’ added to a carnival atmosphere. Spread around the place were scores of vintage motorbikes and tables surrounded by people selling or swapping parts. Les took a sip of his beer and was about to start looking over the vintage motorcycles, when Jimmy stopped a tall, fair-haired bloke walking past.

  ‘Hey, Stu, have you seen Ian Stanley?’

  ‘Oh, g’day, Jimmy. No, I haven’t seen him,’ said the bloke.

  ‘Okay. Thanks anyway.’ The bloke continued on his way and Jimmy turned to Les. ‘Come on, let’s go and check out the old bikes.’

  They wandered about the mums and dads and kids with their faces painted, checking out the old motorbikes. Norton was impressed—they were absolute classics, beautifully cared for, the paint and chrome sparkling in the balmy, afternoon sun. BSA. Goldstars. AJSs. Vincents, Indians, old Harley-Davidsons, a 1928 American Excelsior, Vincent Rapides, Triumph Bonnevilles, Matchless G80s, Ariel 500s. There was even a 1927 Cleveland 4. Name a classic bike and it was there looking like it had just come out of the showroom. The owners were just normal people, and it was like Jimmy said, just because you own a powerful bike, you’re not necessarily some nutty gang member. Les wandered around taking it all in and thinking about his brother, Murray. He had a couple of old motorbikes and although Les wasn’t that mad about them, he used to help Murray with them and take one out for a burble around Dirranbandi now and again. In the course of their wanderings Jimmy would stop and ask people the same question and always get the same answer; they’d shake their head.

  ‘Your contact not here, James?’ asked Les, a little derisively.

  ‘No, it doesn’t look like it.’ Jimmy took another look around, then added quietly, ‘I’m not really surprised.’

  ‘What was that?’ said Les.

  Jimmy shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ Then looked at his watch. ‘Come on, let’s go and see the band.’

  The bistro lounge was quite crowded by now. Les got another two drinks and they found a spot towards the front where the bar angled off towards the verandah. The music coming out of the speakers stopped and the band got on stage behind their instruments. They looked pretty much your average five-piece band in Tshirts and jeans, except for the singer and the bloke on the keyboards. He was tall and gangly with glasses and black hair and looked like Quentin Tarantino. The singer was just as tall, very surfy, very good-looking, with red hair and a perfect white smile almost as good as Jimmy’s. He was wearing a black T-shirt with WEB across a spider web on the front and squinting across the room Les managed to make out Wamberal Express Boardriders. The singer fla
shed his smile, said a few words to some friends in the audience then the band ripped into a howling version of Counting Crows’ ‘Mr Jones’ and in about two chords the dance floor was almost full of young girls drooling over the singer. The band blitzed that, did a song of their own, then ripped into a hot version of Billy Idol’s ‘White Wedding’. The band was tight and hot, the singer had a crisp, clear voice that held the notes perfectly and a stage presence all his own. He’d bop across the stage, then do a few rap moves, then bend his knees, put his arms out and surf the music. There were some little kids dancing down the front of the stage. The singer jumped down and started singing to them and dancing with them and the kids loved him along with the crowd. He jumped back on stage and the band cut into The Rolling Stones’ ‘Mean Disposition’ and Norton could have sworn it was Charlie Watts on the drums and the singer was Jimmy Morrison, Mick Jagger and Jesus all rolled into one. They did a couple more of their own then ripped into Confederate Railroad’s ‘Bill’s Honky Tonk Bar and Grill’, followed by Gina Jeffreys’ ‘Girls Night Out’ which sent the girls in the audience just about crazy. Next thing the dance floor was honky tonk pickin’, linedance kickin’ and Norton left Jimmy holding his bag and joined in.

  Whatever the band did they could do no wrong and, like everybody else in the hotel, Les was having the time of his life. He got off the dance floor as the singer handed the mike to the Quentin Tarantino lookalike on keyboards and said, ‘Righto, everyone, let’s hear it for Gritty.’

  Everybody applauded, Les got another two drinks and Gritty cut into a howling, chord-thumping version of AC/DC’s ‘Gaol Break’, jumping all over the stage and rolling around on the dance floor like a man possessed. Les wondered how he was going to top this when Gritty got hold of a tambourine, the singer jumped behind the keyboards and they tore into Sleepy La Beef’s ‘Standing in the Need of Prayer’, complete with the banging tambourine and honky-tonk, pumping piano just like a holy rolling, happy clapping, revivalist meeting. Norton waved his hands in the air, stomped his feet and couldn’t ever remember seeing anything like it. They did another two songs of their own, then finished with Hoodoo Gurus’ ‘Like Wow, Wipeout’ and left to thunderous applause. A moment or two later music came through the speakers again and the punters resumed drinking and talking.