Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Les. My man,’ he beamed. ‘My main, mother-fucking man. How goes it baby?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ smiled Norton. He studied his flatmate for a second or two. ‘I must say, you look a bit different than yesterday. You look almost alive.’

  ‘I feel it too, don’t worry about that.’ Warren looked evenly at Les for a moment. ‘You know,’ he intoned, nodding with his cup of coffee for emphasis. ‘I’ve been mulling over what you said yesterday about giving up the piss for a month. I’m willing to give it a go. Especially after yesterday.’

  ‘Yeah, righto,’ nodded Les. ‘We’ll see how we go. Sunday’s effort was enough for me.’

  Warren raised his coffee cup and grinned. ‘Then here’s to sobriety.’

  ‘Fuckin’ oath. On the wagon,’ winked Les.

  Warren followed Les into the kitchen and rinsed his cup while Les got a bottle of mineral water from the fridge.

  ‘So what’s on today, landlord?’

  ‘Today? I got a million things to do. Starting with seeing my accountant over at Double Bay. Today marks a new turning point in my life, Woz, and I feel I must go for it.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I thought you might be taking it easy for a while. Sit back on your arse and do fuck all. It’s what you do best.’

  ‘Well, Warren, you know the old saying: dogs don’t piss on moving cars. And that’s just what I’m doing, baby. Movin’ and groovin’. Walkin’ and talkin’.’

  ‘Good idea,’ nodded Warren. ‘And I’m off to the office. Where I’ll be makin’ and shakin’, wheelin’ and dealin’.’

  ‘Yeah! Right on, brother.’

  Les gave Warren a high five, nearly snapping the young advertising executive’s hand off at the wrist then got into the shower. Shortly after he heard Warren call out something about seeing him when he got home and the front door closed. Then it was a nice, long relaxed breakfast reading the paper and before Les knew it, it was time to go and see his accountant at Double Bay.

  Norton was whistling to himself and for the first time he could ever remember, actually looking forward to seeing his accountant when he pulled up in Fairlight Avenue Double Bay. With a large, brown paper bag full of receipts, phone bills, dry-cleaning dockets etc, he walked into Whittle’s modern block of units and pressed the intercom.

  ‘Hello?’ a polite voice crackled over the tiny speaker.

  ‘Hello, Des. It’s Les.’

  ‘Come straight in, Les.’

  The security door buzzed open and Norton let himself in.

  Whittle’s unit was on the ground floor not far from the entrance; he had the door open before Les had a chance to knock. The accountant looked just the same as the last time Les had seen him: half his size in a sober, chalk-striped shirt, sober maroon tie and sober black trousers and shoes. The same twinkle was in his soft brown eyes, and his short hair still looked like it needed combing. The youthful, almost boyish face, still intrigued Les, because although Whittle was in his forties, he hardly looked a day over twenty. Having a slim, wiry build helped and even though Whittle didn’t train all that much, Norton was surprised to find out that he had been a champion fencer at Sydney University and had once taken out a silver medal for Australia at the Commonwealth Games.

  ‘Hello, Les,’ he said, his voice slow and distinct. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  Norton took his handshake. ‘Yeah. You too, Des.’

  Whittle closed the door and Les followed him into the lounge room of his one-bedroom unit which he had turned into a fairly spacious office, complete with a computer, fax machine and photocopier. He hit a folding lamp above a table and motioned for Les to sit down, which he did dropping the paper bag full of documents in the middle.

  ‘These are all your receipts, are they, Les?’ asked Whittle.

  ‘Yeah, that’s them, Des. It’s been pretty quiet in the public relations rort lately.’ Norton gave a bit of a grin. ‘In fact, the club’s closed up for a month. Might even be for good.’

  ‘Yes, I heard a bit of a rumour to that effect.’ Whittle removed all the documents from the brown paper bag and went through them quickly but carefully. ‘Mmm,’ he nodded. ‘These all seem to be in order. We should be able to get you some sort of return from this.’

  ‘Good,’ replied Les, now feeling at ease and just a little pleased with himself. He watched his accountant for a few moments then shuffled on his seat. ‘So what else was it you wanted to see me about, Des? Is it that block of flats?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I was about to come to that.’ He looked up from the table. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee, Les? Or how about a glass of beautiful, clear spring water? I’ve got a dispenser in the kitchen. It tastes ten times better than tap water.’

  ‘Okay, Des. Sounds good.’

  The accountant brought Les out a large glass of cold, clear water which tasted as good as he said. While Les was sipping it he got a white manilla envelope from a filing cabinet which he placed in front of Norton. Norton noticed the official seal of Randwick Municipal Council on the front.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘I think you’d better read it first, Les. Then we can discuss it.’

  Norton’s eyebrows knitted slightly and his ears pricked up at the ominous way Whittle had said ‘discuss it’. Some sixth sense told Norton this wasn’t going to be quite the good news he had expected.

  The letter was addressed to D. Whittle, Accountant of Blue Seas Apartments, Aquila Street, Randwick. Norton studied it as best he could and it all looked kosher until he came to the part that said, ‘Mr Whittle, as you are aware under section 16a, Rule 46b of the Local Government Act of 1902, Council has the power...’ That’s when Norton’s dark brown eyes nearly fell out of his big red head. He read it again and his jaw almost hit the table. He stared at the letter for a moment, then glared up at Whittle, his face a mixture of disbelief and accusation.

  ‘What the fuck’s this? You’re fuckin’ kidding, aren’t you? It says here the fuckin’ council’s reclaiming the land my block of flats is on!’

  ‘That’s right, Les.’

  ‘They can’t fuckin’ well do that.’

  ‘Oh, yes they can, Les.’ Whittle pointed to a part of the letter. ‘See here, where it says “Secretary of The Department of Main Roads” and that other part that says “section 26b of the —”’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ interrupted Norton. ‘The Local fuckin’ Government Act of sixteen fuckin’ twenty or some fuckin’ thing. Fuckin’ council workers. Where do they think they are? Fuckin’ Romania?’

  Whittle watched in silence as Les took a long drink of water and glared at the letter. Then he seemed to settle down a bit.

  ‘Oh well,’ he shrugged. ‘If they take it, they take it. They’re doing me a favour really. I was never all that interested in the joint. Just tell ’em to send me the cheque.’ Les looked at Whittle. ‘What’s the place worth now? It’s got to be around three and a half hundred grand. At least.’

  Whittle made a small gesture with his hands. ‘Les, I hate to tell you this. But when a council or the department of main roads reclaim your land, no matter what the circumstances, they only pay you the V.G.’

  ‘The V.G. What’s the fuckin’ V.G.!’

  ‘Whatever the Valuer General’s Department says it’s worth.’

  ‘And what’s the V.G. on this?’

  Whittle paused for a second. ‘A hundred and fifteen thousand dollars.’

  ‘WHAT!!?’ roared Norton. ‘A hundred and fifteen grand? The fuckin’joint cost me a hundred and fifty!’ ‘Plus the interest, Les. Sixteen and a half per cent. Plus other expenses.’

  ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ! What fuckin’ next?’

  That’s why I’ve been ringing you for the last three months. I think you’d better sit back and have another glass of cold water. There’s a few things I have to explain to you.’

  ‘Like what? “Les, I’ve got some good news and I’ve got some bad news”.’

  ‘Well, Les, if you wish to be jocular
... Firstly, there is no good news. And secondly, the bad news only gets worse.’

  When Whittle had finished with him, Les Norton the Donald Trump of the Eastern suburbs face looked more like a badly-iced sponge cake that had been left out in the rain and if there had been a length of rope in the flat, Les would have hung himself in the accountant’s shithouse. Norton’s one hundred and fifty thousand dollar investment had turned out to be a bigger lemon than the movie Cleopatra.

  The old block of flats was practically falling down and in constant need of repair. The most the agents could let them for was $110 per week, and one, it appeared, had been vacant for over three weeks now. The income from the flats covered the bank payments and interest but constant maintenance, council rates and Whittle’s expenses had taken up what was over. Plus there was a live-in caretaker, who got $100 a week. So after three years of all this, instead of having a bit of a whippy waiting for him, Norton was nearly $2,000 in the red. And climbing. If Randwick Council had not decided to reclaim, the land alone would have been worth at least $300 000 on today’s value. But Randwick Council must have known Blue Seas was a dog and decided it was the ideal place to put in a roundabout and divert the traffic away from Belmore Road and the Prince of Wales Hospital and Randwick Junction. And while they were on the subject of public relations, there was also a large girls’ college behind Aquila Street, Saint Bridgettes, who had a covenant on the land going back to the turn of the century. If it was ever reclaimed, the college got part of it for a small reserve: Saint Bridgettes Park.

  To compound the whole shemozzle, council didn’t intend to reclaim for around another five years. So for the next five years Les was stuck with an old block of flats that would never increase in value and, even after the rent money, would cost him about $400 a week. And like they say in the army, there wasn’t thing one Les could do about it.

  From across the table Norton stared in silence at his accountant, his face a mixture of grief, anger, disbelief and a myriad of other emotions; not one of them even resembling joy or happiness. Whittle couldn’t work out whether Les was going to burst into tears or start taking his home-unit apart. He thought this might be as good a time as any to get a nice cold glass of spring water himself. He returned with the glass plus a folder which he placed on the table between them.

  ‘So that’s about it, Les,’ he said softly. ‘As far as Blue Seas Apartments go, financially you’re not in a very sound position. But you can’t blame me,’ he added quickly, pointing to the folder he had just placed on the table. ‘Look through all the documents. You can see where I’ve negative geared it, offset it against your current income. There’s a complete breakdown analysis of your capital expenditure. I even tried for an assets revaluation reserve. Have a look.’ He shrugged, and pushed the folder in front of Les.

  Norton flicked disconsolately through all the facts and figures. He may as well have been looking at a Chinese newspaper.

  ‘What about that fuckin’ lawyer in Paddington who handled all this? What’s his name? Aubrey Spenser. I’ll go and have a nice word with him. He should have known about all this.’

  Whittle tried not to smile. ‘Well, if you are, I suggest you pack a suitcase. He’s in gaol in Ireland. For currency fraud.’

  Norton closed his eyes. ‘That figures,’ he snorted. ‘That fuckin’ figures.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry, Les,’ said Whittle, taking another sip of water. ‘But unfortunately that’s the way it goes.’

  ‘Yeah,’ grunted Les. ‘The way it goes. You win some, you lose some.’

  ‘That’s right. Caveat emptor. Or damnum sine injuria.’

  Norton just glared at his accountant.

  ‘Look, Les, why don’t you go home and have a look through those papers yourself? You never know, you might just come up with something I’ve overlooked.’ Whittle was telling a complete falsehood; Norton was stuffed six ways to Sunday. But it was a polite way of getting him out of the flat. ‘In the meantime I’ll attend to your tax returns. There may possibly be something there I can do.’

  Les snorted a burst of air out through his nose. ‘Yeah, righto.’ He rose from the table picking up the folder as he did. ‘I’ll give you a ring early next week.’

  ‘Do that.’ Whittle moved across to the door and opened it. ‘Good luck, Les. And don’t let it get you down too much.’

  ‘Yeah, terrific. Thanks anyway, Des.’ Norton gave his accountant another brief handshake and walked out to his car.

  He didn’t start the engine straight away, he just sat there staring at the folder, not able to believe his rotten luck. Norton’s gilt edged dream of riches had suddenly, unexpectedly crumbled to dust. Worse — dried-up dog-shit. He moved his gaze from the folder, to the window and to the sky. You’ve always been crooked on me for some reason, haven’t you? Why? Why fuckin’ me? What have I ever done to you? He returned his glare to the folder. Fuckin’ Price. And that fat fuckin’ George Brennan too. ‘You’d be a mug not to tumble into this, Les. Now’s your chance to make some big bucks, Les.’ Big bucks, huh! I’m about eighty grand down the gurgler so far and I’ve got five years to go. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He still couldn’t believe it. Well there is one thing I can do to save some money. I can sack that fuckin’ caretaker. And I’ll do it right now. What’s the name of that stinkin’ estate agency? He flicked through the folder. Here it is. Steinberg and Ringblum Licensed Real Estate agents. That figures. Yeah, that fuckin’ figures. Les’s face was an unsmiling mask set in cement as he started the car and drove to Belmore Road, Randwick Junction.

  The traffic wasn’t too bad between Double Bay and Randwick and Les was there in about fifteen minutes; only abusing all the pedestrians and just about every other driver on the road. He found the estate agency after turning left off Alison Road and fluked a parking spot about twenty metres away.

  Steinberg and Ringblum’s was in between a boutique and a travel agency underneath a large motel. The front window was full of photos of houses and blocks of flats and stencilled on the door was Isaac Steinberg, Licensed Real Estate Agent and Marvin Ringblum, Licensed Strata Manager. Behind a counter inside, three girls sat typing beneath a large map of Randwick and Coogee. A sort of corridor along the grey carpet separated them from a row of filing cabinets and further down the room glass partitions formed three offices. Les stepped inside and waited at the counter.

  A young blonde girl in a light blue dress got up from her typewriter and walked over. ‘Yes?’ she smiled. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to see either Mr Steinberg or Mr Ringblum, please,’ answered Les.

  ‘Mr Steinberg is out at the moment, but Mr Ringblum is in. Who shall I say wishes to see him?’

  ‘Mr Norton. The owner of Blue Seas Apartments.’

  ‘I won’t be a moment.’

  The blonde girl walked down to the furthest office, said something to a man in a shirt and tie, who looked up briefly, then came back.

  ‘Mr Ringblum will see you. The second office on the left.’ She opened up part of the counter and Les walked through.

  Marvin Ringblum, a telephone receiver resting on his left shoulder, was about fifty, balding, with a paunch pushing out against a white shirt tucked into a pair of brown trousers. With a podgy hand he motioned Les into a seat, muttered a few more unsmiling words into the phone and hung up.

  ‘Mr Norton,’ he said through an oily, insincere smile, ‘such a long time since we’ve seen you. How are you?’ He offered Les a handshake which felt like a slice of veal steak. ‘And what can I do for you?’

  As if Marvin Ringblum didn’t know. Sitting before him was one big, dumb goyen with red hair. A goyen straddled up with a block of flats worth about two and a half shekels. And now the goyen was probably going to start crying on his shoulder. Norton’s troubles Marvin didn’t need. Sympathy Les wasn’t going to get.

  ‘As you probably know, I’m the owner of Blue Seas Apartments in Aquila Street,’ said Les, pointing to the folder in front of him.


  ‘Of course, Mr Norton. A nice... a nice little block of units.’

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Mr Ringblum. I want to sack... dismiss the caretaker.’

  Ringblum shrugged and made an open-handed gesture. ‘Of course, Mr Norton. You’re the owner. You do as you wish.’

  ‘Yeah. But I want to do it straight away. Today.’

  ‘Good,’ nodded Ringblum. ‘Do it.’

  Les looked at the estate agent quizzically. ‘Well, you’re the agents. What do you do? Send him a letter? Go down and tell him? What?’ Surely there had to be some kind of protocol involved here? You just don’t sack someone without a reason or at least some sort of an explanation — do you?

  But as far as Steinberg and Ringblum Real Estate agents were concerned, Les could do what he liked with Blue Seas Apartments and whoever lived in them. The block was a lemon and an eyesore and for the amount of commission they collected from the rents, not worth having on the books. And as far as any feelings for the caretaker... Marvin and Isaac were a couple of good Jewish boys who had come out from Russia fleeing persecution by the communists. Their mothers wanted them to be doctors but they couldn’t afford uni fees at the time. Politics didn’t interest them, or being heroin dealers and joining the parking police didn’t pay enough. So they became real estate agents instead. Norton could have taken the caretaker out into the street and had him publicly beheaded then fed his body to the hyenas at Taronga Park Zoo for all they cared.

  ‘No problem at all, Mr Norton. You just go down to the apartments and tell Mr Olsen he’s been dismissed.’ Ringblum sat back and gave Les another oily smile.

  ‘That’s it?’ blinked Les.

  ‘You want I should give him a gold watch?’ shrugged Ringblum. The phone rang and he picked it up. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Norton, but I’m terribly busy,’ he said, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘If there is some sort of a problem, come back and see me. Thank you, Mr Norton.’

  ‘Yeah righto, terrific. It’s been really average talking to you.’ Norton picked up his folder and left the office.