The four hippies Les had met on the roof the day before came out, accompanied by what must have been their girlfriends or wives or whatever. The men, still scraggly and unkempt, looked more like Neil out of The Young Ones than ever, the girls were just as scraggly and had earth mother, hunza pies and bean sprouts written all over them. If they noticed Les they didn’t let on and seemed to play him pretty wide. I must have upset the children of the rainbow on the roof yesterday, mused Norton. I wasn’t that awful to them, was I? The Manson Family clambered into the old kombi, which started after about the fifteenth time and spluttered off, destination unknown. Peace, love and tofu, thought Les and continued sweeping.
There was still no sign of the artist and Norton was thinking of continuing the charade in the back yard when a car backfired in the street like a gun going off. Momentarily startled, Les looked up as a fair sized, transit van swung into the street, backfired again, then did a U-turn and parked where the hippies had just pulled out. The van was a bilious green; painted down the side in black, Apocalypse Now type of writing, edged with orange and purple was: The Harlots. No need to guess who this is, mused Norton.
The driver switched off the motor and got out. He was about six foot six, lean, and very wiry, with thick black hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore black jeans, red, ten-hole Doc Martens boots and a sleeveless, Violent Femmes T-shirt. There was a look of anguish on his already gaunt face. Steve Hoy’s ‘Break Up Fallout’ was howling from somewhere inside the van, abruptly cutting out as the driver swung the side door open. Norton leant on his broom and double and triple blinked as what was inside stumbled out and whoever or whatever they were, their cup of happiness was nowhere near running over and the object of their avalanche of abuse was the driver.
First out was a tall, sexy, leggy thing with flowing black hair, wearing a low-cut gown that barely covered a massive cleavage and a split up the front that showed plenty of a sensational pair of legs. She wore thick, blue lipstick, blue nail polish, blue eye shadow — and if she couldn’t have got a run in an el-cheapo vampire movie, she could have been Elvira’s stand in, right down to the tassels hanging from the elbows of her gown. She stretched her legs and ripped into the driver.
Next out, refusing the driver’s hand, was another tall, leggy piece only with a shock of teased, blonde hair, tinged with purple, green and red that matched her makeup. A pair of faded, frayed cut-off denim jeans ate into her crotch over a pair of thick, black stockings; pieces of metal flashed from a pair of black Doc Martens. Clinging to a pair of healthy white boobs was a black cotton singlet with a white cobweb design all over it. She immediately joined in abusing the driver.
Following her was another tall, dark-haired girl in thick, black stockings and red high-heels wearing a black leather, micromini covered in pockets with about the same number of thin, studded belts wound around her slim waist. Her hair was long and straight pulled beneath a red beret covered in badges, pretty much like a New York Guardian Angel. Like the others, she wasn’t badly stacked either and all that covered her boobs was a purple top that looked like it had been made from an old string shopping bag. Two nice, pink nipples poked through the holes and somehow she’d managed to pin a James Dean badge to the top without doing herself too much damage. That made three abusing the driver as another got out. Christ, thought Norton. What next?
Next was taller than the others with an explosion of copper-coloured hair tinged with red, white and blue that matched her make-up and silver glitter around her eyes. Somehow she’d managed to get into an incredibly tight pair of faded jeans that had been given the death of a thousand cuts with a razor blade and sat nicely over a pair of red stiletto heels. What remained of her jeans was held up by a pair of wide, red braces covered in badges and other odds and ends, over a loose white T-shirt with Marilyn Monroe on the front. As soon as she’d finished stretching her legs she too joined in the payout on the driver.
Last out was a dumpy, short blonde in a school tunic, white shirt and school tie, school hat, black stockings and white Adidas running shoes. For some reason she didn’t join in abusing the driver.
‘Look, Fran, I’m really sorry,’ pleaded the driver to the Elvira lookalike.
‘Get fucked, Syd,’ was the blunt reply. ‘You’re a dead-set fuckin’ goose. Hand me my bass and piss off.’
‘Okay, Fran. But I am —’
‘Ohh, blow it out your arse, Syd,’ said red beret. ‘Just hand us our gear and fuck off.’
‘All right, all right.’ The driver got inside the van and began handing out various instruments, including a slide trombone.
‘Running out of petrol,’ cursed the one in shorts. ‘We should’ve been home six fuckin’ hours ago. I’m fucked.’
‘That gig was a mother, too,’ said the one in the lacerated jeans. ‘Now this on top of it. You cunt, Syd!’ she yelled into the van.
‘I said I was sorry, Riona,’ came a voice from inside the van.
‘In your arse.’
‘This is fucked. Absolutely fucked,’ said the one in the shorts, as she took a guitar. ‘And so am I. I’m going to bed for about five days. And don’t come around before I wake up, Syd,’ she howled into the van, ‘or 111 take you to Taronga Park and feed you to the fuckin’ yak! You cunt!’
‘Don’t worry, Isla. I won’t,’ answered the voice in the van.
The girls picked up their various instruments and, except for the one in the school uniform, gave the driver another last torrent of abuse before storming past Les into the flats. If they took any notice of Norton they didn’t show it. Somehow they managed to glare at him and ignore him at the same time. Norton leant on his broom and watched in amusement and amazement as they click-clacked past him and up the stairs in their high heeled shoes.
‘Don’t worry about it, Syd,’ said the one in the school uniform who had remained behind. ‘The girls are just tired.’
‘Yeah, but Franulka’s really upset,’ replied the driver. ‘I’ve never seen her like that.’
‘She’ll be okay. See you, Syd.’
‘Okay, Gwen. See you. And I’m sorry about what happened.’
The one in the school uniform smiled over her shoulder at the driver, gave Les a brief one as she went past and followed the others up the stairs. The door slammed and that was that.
After the avalanche of abuse that still hung in the air, it was uncannily silent out in the street. Norton watched the dejected driver light a cigarette, then run a hand across his face and through his hair. Curiosity got the better of him and still holding the broom he walked across to the van.
‘So, how’s show biz treating you, mate?’ he asked, with half a smile.
The driver gave Les a disinterested once up and down and took a drag on his smoke. ‘Unreal, man,’ he said tightly, ‘Un-fuckin’-real.’
Norton made a bit of shuffle with the broom. ‘Well, you know the old saying, mate: it’s a long way to the shop if you want a sausage roll.’
The driver didn’t seem too impressed at all with Norton’s weak attempt at a joke and continued to drag away at his cigarette. Les had met a few roadies over the years and knew they were a tough bunch in general, not used to taking much shit. Up closer, this one was even wirier, and dangling off his long, sinewy arms were a pair of hands that looked like two baseball mitts. Christ, thought Les, I wouldn’t fancy getting those wrapped round my throat. Yet somehow he seemed to have ‘mug’ written all over him.
‘Anyway, mate. I’m Les. I’m the new caretaker.’ Norton offered the driver his hand. ‘I only just started this week.’
The driver looked at it for a second then took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Syd. Good to meet you, Les.’ Syd’s grip was like sticking your hand in a wool press.
‘So what’s your story, Syd? Are you the band’s driver, or roadie, sort of thing?’
‘That’s me. And Mr Fixit and bouncer thrown in.’
Norton made another little shuffle with the broom. ‘If you don’t mind me sayi
ng so, Syd, that wasn’t a bad blast they just gave you. You could hear it down at Coogee. What did you do? Get caught with your hand up the schoolgirl’s dress?’
Syd looked at Norton and almost smiled. Apart from the one in the school tunic he’d copped nothing but abuse. Here was someone, a bit of a battler like himself, who didn’t seem like too bad a bloke and maybe a shoulder to cry on. He took another drag then flicked the butt into the gutter.
‘We’ve just been touring Canberra. Five full-on gigs in five days. Last night’s was a complete bummer. Brawls, drunks... I had five fights keeping the pissheads away from the girls. It finished up an all-in with the bouncers all getting into it. The pigs came and closed it down; which suited us. We were paid and out by one-thirty and would have been home by four.’ Syd made a helpless gesture with his hands. ‘But in all the confusion I forgot to fill the tank and we ran out of juice six ks past Goulburn. I had to thumb it back to Goulbum with a can. Thumb it back to the van. Then drive back to Goulburn and fill up. The carbie got full of shit and we’ve been spluttering and farting all the way back to Sydney. The girls have been stuck in the back for nearly ten hours, so you can imagine how they feel. And on top of five shit gigs.’
Norton took a peek in the back of the van. There were speakers, amps, mixers, a drum kit, tools, wires and more junk. Even allowing for three girls in the front and the stuff they’d just taken out, Hitler would have given the Jews more room on a train to Auschwitz in 1942.
‘So what’s doing, Syd?’ asked Les. ‘You want a hand with the rest of this stuff?’
‘No, that’s all right, thanks, Les. I live with me brother over at Maroubra; he’s got a big double garage and I leave it all there.’ Syd looked evenly at Les for a moment. ‘But I’ll probably come over tomorrow and see how the girls are. Take Franulka out somewhere.’
‘Franulka?’
‘Yeah. The one in the black gown with the blue makeup. Fran’s my girl.’ The way Syd looked at Les as he spoke it could possibly be interpreted as a hint for Les to keep his eyes off her.
‘Okay,’ smiled Norton. ‘I’ll more than likely be here. Call in and we might have a beer or something. I’m in flat one.’
‘Righto, Les. I might even do that.’ Syd gave Les a goofy sort of smile. ‘You don’t seem like a bad bloke.’
‘Ohh, don’t worry, Syd. There’s heaps of blokes round worse than me.’ Norton couldn’t help but grin. ‘This time I might even tell you my troubles.’
Syd’s goofy smile matched Norton’s grin. ‘Fair enough.’
Les watched Syd slam the door and then get behind the wheel. After a bit of coaxing the motor started and the van backfired and sputtered down Perouse Road, through The Spot and in the direction of Maroubra. Well, how about that, he mused. I’ve finally got to meet all my tenants. I wouldn’t mind rooting any of those tarts in the band. Especially that one in the leather mini. As for Elvira? Syd’s just a little on the large, strong side; he can keep her to himself. I’d stick it up that one in the mini, though. Les continued to fiddle around in the front yard and again his thoughts returned to Sandy, clouded slightly by thoughts of sex with those homy members of the band. He was concentrating on this when he felt something soft and wet gently probing around his backside. Les turned round to find Rosie with her nose fair up his date. Standing behind her, holding the lead and wearing the same clothes he had on the day before, was Burt.
‘Is that you there, Les?’ he said.
Norton felt like giving Rosie a quick backhander, but she looked up at him with such an affectionate, sloppy grin he patted the old girl’s head instead. ‘Yeah, how are you, Burt?’
‘Good.’ Burt gave a little chuckle. ‘Rosie must have recognised you.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Les. ‘She’s certainly got a good nose for faces.’
‘That’s my girl all right.’ Burt again peered oddly through his sunglasses at Norton for a moment or two. ‘Anyway, we have to do a bit more shopping. Come along, Rosie. See you later, Les.’
‘Yeah. See you, Burt. Have a good day.’
Norton leant on his broom for a while as he watched them disappear round the hotel corner then went back to sweeping the front of the flats. Well, I’m fucked if I know where the artist is he pondered. I’ve been hanging around here all morning like a stale bottle of piss and all I’ve met is some Dubbo roadie and had a dog stick its nose up my Khyber. I could be here all fuckin’ day. Norton’s stomach suddenly rumbled and somehow he instinctively turned towards the hotel. He knew what was inside: cold beer, juicy steaks and crisp, fresh salads. There was still no sign of Sandra. Ahh, fuck this. I’m gonna go and have a steak.
There were a number of people seated on the white, plastic chairs and tables outside the hotel, taking advantage of the shade offered by the old colonial style verandah edged with iron lattice work and hung with gas-lamps that ran around overhead. The beers on the tables looked almost irresistible and walking past after all that strenuous sweeping Norton was sorely tempted. No, fuck it, he thought. I’ll have a lemon squash. He rounded the comer and went into the Saloon bar. A barmaid, in the hotel uniform of black dress and black and white striped collarless shirt caught his eye and a schooner of squash was on the bar and halfway down his throat by the time he’d got his change.
The old hotel was spacious and bright with ample chairs and tables and paintings and blown-up photos of old Coogee and Randwick on the walls. The Luminarie bar with its statue of ‘The Thinker’ amongst the indoor plants wasn’t what Les was looking for. Another eating area painted pink and grey with comfortable, blue wicker chairs and tables, Quacks, was. Sipping his squash, he strolled over to the counter above which, several copper plaques said Starters, Soups, Main Courses etc. He studied the menu for a moment, changed his mind about a steak, and ordered roast beef with Yorkshire pudding. This was ready straightaway and after paying Les got some salad as well from a refrigerated servery then sat down next to an old, dark grey, marble fireplace just around from the bar.
Well, this is all right, thought Norton, ripping into his roast beef and pud. I can certainly think of harder ways to put in a day. After a couple of mouthfuls of food his lemon squash was gone so he got another one. But then again, that caretaking is bloody hard yakka; not to mention all the responsibilities I’ve got. So I deserve a break. He took his time eating, then leisurely checked out the clientele while he finished his second squash. Well, this establishment is very handy to my new place of employment, he mused. I shouldVe come here more often. Finally, he quietly belched into his hand, got up and headed back to the old block of flats.
A bottle shop next to the bar in Perouse Road with Royal Hotel Vintage Cellars made him hesitate and have a momentous, five-second struggle with his conscience. It was just too hard to resist. Ahh, fuck Warren, he thought. What he don’t know won’t hurt him. He bought a dozen cans of Fourex to put in the fridge of the old flat —just in case. On the way back he was disappointed to see the old white utility gone. Shit, he cursed. Missed her! How’s my fuckin’ timing?
Norton made a cup of coffee and gazed moodily out the window of his flat. Well, he thought, as Roger Miller almost put it, I’ve had about four hours of pushing broom, and I’m still stuck in this eight by twelve, four-bit fuckin’ room. Don’t know where the beautiful Miss Picasso is and it’s much too good a day to be stuck in here like a battery bloody hen with the didgeridoo string quartet about ready to start up on the roof. I doubt if I’ll see Elvira and the rocking vampires before midnight and I don’t particularly feel like going out the front again and getting Rosie’s snotty nose wedged into my blurter. No. You can stick this joint in your arse. I’m going down the beach — Coogee.
Norton did just that. He found a parking spot not far from Gales Baths and, although Coogee wasn’t his favourite beach, spent the remainder of the day on his banana chair swimming, reading Penthouse and perving on the beach girls. For a poor, battling caretaker, trying to get over his divorce, he was doing it very cosy indeed. It was
late afternoon when he went back to Blue Seas Apartments and got under flat one’s dribbly, but warm enough shower.
After he’d slipped into a T-shirt, jeans and sneakers, Les decided to walk down to The Spot and get the paper and something else to read. When he walked out the front the white Holden utility was parked near the corner and his hopes rose somewhat. But sank just as quickly when he noticed the girl of his dreams standing across the road next to a dark green Ford Fairlane with a tallish, good style of a bloke in his thirties with a neat, brown moustache. They weren’t exactly locked in a ‘passionate embrace’ but the way they were holding onto each other said that he and Sandra were definitely more than just good friends. Not wanting to be caught rubbernecking, Norton took a quick left in the direction of the shops, slowing up once to take a peek over his shoulder to see the bloke drive off as Sandra waved daintily but enthusiastically.
So that’s what I’ve been hanging around for all day, he grumbled to himself. Miss Picasso appears to have herself a bloke. And not a bad style either. And I think if she had a choice between his car and the Nortonmobile I’m sure I know which one she’d take. This could be a bit trickier than I thought. I might even have to play my right bower early and let her know who the landlord is. Anyway, we’ll see what happens. While he was at the shops Les got some fish and chips which he took back and ate in the luxurious surrounding of his caretaker’s flat, washed down afterwards with a cold can of Fourex. It was the first one for almost a week and Les couldn’t believe how good it tasted. It tasted that good he had another one almost straight after it which seemed to taste even better. In fact the taste lingered so piquantly and tantalisingly in Norton’s mouth that, after sitting around reading and listening to the radio till almost nine, he decided to go over to the Royal and fill up completely.
Leaving the building, Norton was right on time to see the girl of his dreams, this time wearing an ultra-short blue minidress and an embroidered denim top. Only this time she was getting into a maroon Jaguar and the new squeeze had dark hair, no moustache and an expensive looking sports coat. She noticed Les out of the window and gave him a smile and a wave as the Jaguar cruised easily off up Perouse Road. Norton had time to wave back before he was left standing like a shag on a rock in a wisp of expensive exhaust fumes. Christ, he thought, Sandy baby sure doesn’t let too much grass grow under her feet. But see her in that mini. A top sort like her; what would you expect? And they sure ain’t calling round in FJ Holdens. Shit, this certainly is going to be trickier than I thought. Thumbs jammed into the pockets of his jeans, Les strolled thoughtfully to the hotel.
Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas Page 7