‘There’s heaps more happened than that up there,’ said Les, ‘but honestly, I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘Christ! That’s not bad for a start,’ said Eddie.
‘What about the escape from the hotel?’ said Billy. ‘Indiana Jones, eat your heart out.’
‘I’ll tell you what you do need, Les,’ said Price. ‘A drink. In fact after that, I might even get you one myself.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Les, feeling a lot lighter and happier, now that he’d sorted things out a bit and got things off his chest. Then Norton got that look in his eye again. He snatched the bottle of wine out of Price’s hands. ‘What’s this taste like?’
‘Taste like?’ howled Price. ‘You don’t drink that, you fuckin’ hillbilly. It’s a collector’s item.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t drink it? It’s piss, ain’t it?’
Before Price or anyone else had a chance to do anything, Les got a bottle opener from the bar, scraped away the wax seal and uncorked the bottle of wine with a gentle pop. He placed five whisky tumblers on Price’s desk, filled them, then offered them around. Everybody took one except George.
Les raised his glass. ‘Well, here’s to Jimmy.’
‘To Jimmy,’ said Eddie.
‘Jimmy,’ nodded Billy solemnly.
‘Yeah, bloody nephew Jimmy,’ said Price, staring mournfully at the opened twenty-five thousand dollar bottle of rose sitting next to the old wooden crate on his desk.
Les watched Price for a moment, then took a sip. Whether he appreciated good wine or not, it was the best Norton had ever tasted; or any liquor for that matter. It had a sweet, gentle fragrance, was silky smooth and slid down your throat with an exquisite taste that was almost heavenly. Slightly chilled, it would have been like drinking honeyed sunshine. Even sitting in the thick whisky glass, the wine’s delicate beauty seemed to capture the light in the room and sparkle like a handful of tiny, pink diamonds. Nevertheless, Norton had to show his crass ignorance.
‘Yeah, not bad,’ he said, licking his lips, ‘but there’s no way it’s worth twenty-five grand a bottle. It’s not sweet enough.’ So Les got some ice cubes from the bar fridge and dropped them in his glass, then opened a small bottle of lemonade and pretended to add that as well. He stirred the ice cubes around with his index finger, licked it, then took a sip. ‘Yeah, that’s better. It just needed a bit of sugar.’
Price buried his face in one hand. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, shaking his head with despair.
‘Tastes pretty good to me,’ said Billy.
‘Beautiful,’ agreed Eddie. ‘I’ve never tasted anything like it.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ said Les, ‘but what would you expect from a poor, hillbilly Queenslander that hangs around with Mafia types and assassins that go round burying people.’
George was still staring silently into space, his glass of wine where Norton had left it on Price’s desk, untouched. Les reached over and gave the glass a gentle clink.
‘Well, come on, George. Don’t look so sad. Drink up. Have one for Jimmy. I mean, he was only your nephew. It’s not as if you lost a son or something, is it—Kirk Douglas?’
George turned slowly to Norton. ‘What are you talking about, Les?’
Norton shook his head. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all, dancing man. Nothing at all.’
Guns 'n' Rose Page 24