‘Yes, Les.’
‘This book you’re writing?’
‘Yes. What about it?’
‘You feel like researching another chapter?’
Nola looked up at him and out came another throaty chuckle. ‘Why not?’ she answered. ‘Another paragraph or two wouldn’t go astray.’
Number two was pretty good but it didn’t quite have the lust or spontaneity of upstairs; maybe it lacked atmosphere. There was still nothing wrong with it though and both were more than happy with a warm glow planted in their cheeks when they finished. However, if the old lounge upstairs was uncomfortable, the night-and-day in Norton’s flat wasn’t quite meant for honey-mooners either. Before long they were both dressed again and Les was walking her out the front. As they stepped out into Aquila Street, Les noticed that the maroon Jaguar was gone. Wonder what’ll be parked there tomorrow, he mused. A Maserati? A Mercedes SLE?
Les apologised to Nola that he couldn’t drive her home, but he’d poured quite a bit of beer down his throat that night and if a booze bus pulled him up and put a bag on him he’d probably blow the thing to the other side of the moon. He’d have to shout her home in a cab. Nola said that was all right. She’d got a lift out and was expecting to catch a taxi home, anyway. At least that’s something blokes can thank the wallopers and their breathalyser for, thought Les. It certainly takes the stigma out of putting sheilas in a cab to save driving them home after you’ve got pissed and done the business.
Nola actually thanked Les for a splendid evening and she was quite sincere about it. She gave him her phone number and said to ring her in a week or so if he wanted to, after she’d got back from visiting her family in Adelaide. They kissed goodnight and the last Les saw of her was her smiling face as she waved out of the back of a Legion cab heading towards Randwick Junction.
Norton couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as he ambled back to the old block of flats. It had been two crackajack roots, and one a very unusual one. Nola was a top lady plus he’d broken in the old flat the first night he’d been there. He was still keen to get onto Miss Picasso, though all those blokes hanging around her had taken some of the elan off it. Still, a couple of slices off the loaf shouldn’t make that much difference.
When he got back to the flats Les suddenly found himself absolutely busting for a leak. He decided to piss down his side passage facing Aquila Street. If a man couldn’t piss all over his own block of flats in a democracy, what could he do?
Norton was hosing away at the fence when a grey BMW pulled into Aquila Street and parked almost where the maroon Jag had pulled out. Ohh no, thought Les. This couldn’t possibly be — not at this time of night. A wiry sort of figure got out of the BMW and, although it wasn’t all that cold, he was wearing an expensive-looking beige trenchcoat and a hat pulled down over his eyes. In the dark the figure couldn’t see Les and likewise Les couldn’t make out the figure’s face. But there was something in the figure’s mannerisms and the way he walked that Les could almost swear he’d seen him before. The figure looked up and down the street and walked into Blue Seas Apartments. Ohh, no, thought Les. This isn’t real. He zipped up his fly and peeked into the main entrance of the flats through the door. Sure enough, the figure was knocking softly on flat three. I don’t fuckin’ believe this, thought Les. The figure wasn’t there more than a second or two when he went inside leaving Les blinking into the gloomy light. Well, I’ll be stuffed, he thought again. Why doesn’t the moll just hang a red light out the front and be done with it? He shook his head, went inside, cleaned his teeth and hit the sack. His disappointment in Miss Picasso lingered in his mind for a short while, along with the odd mannerisms of her last boyfriend, but he soon put it out of his mind. Even if the old night-and-day was a bit hard and his pillow a little lumpy, after two solid roots and a gut full of beer Norton was soon in the land of nod.
Ahh, how sweet it is to be back in hangoverville thought Les, when he woke up around eight the following morning. All those things he’d been missing after almost a week off the piss: the wonderful, throbbing headache, your mouth tasting like Jabba The Hutt had crapped in it; grainy eyes; lethargy — and no box of Warren’s little prescription pills to ease the suffering. Actually Norton’s hangover wasn’t the full-on, industrial strength type and luckily he’d stuck to drinking beer all night. But a week of having a clear head made it seem a lot worse. The ghetto blaster was on the table near the bed; he switched it on and listened to some music as he lay there and suffered. He could hear the front door open and close a few times, and knew he was eventually going to have to make a move himself. There was only one way to get rid of this feeling: a crap, a run and a feed. He got up, put the jug on and slowly began to organise himself. After a mug of coffee and a dump, he got into his shorts, T-shirt and Nikes and went out the front.
It wasn’t too bad a day; there were a few clouds around, a light breeze, sunny without being too hot. Les did a few stretches against the front fence, wrapped an old sweatband around his head and took off, not going anywhere in particular, just burning up forty minutes and as much toxins and stale booze as possible. He trotted down past Randwick Boys High School, turned left into Rainbow Street then up and down a few hills around Coogee and Randwick. While he ran, his thoughts alternated between last night’s sexual romp with Nola, his disillusion with Sandra and the old block of flats in general. But mostly his thoughts were on the run and the shape he was in; the hangover had the big Queenslander doing it tough. Somehow he made it back to the flats and somehow he was able to grunt out a hundred sit-ups and agonise over the same number of push-ups. He was sitting against the inside of the front fence, trying to figure out whether he felt better or worse, when Sandra came out of the flats carrying a carton of different coloured T-shirts. She noticed him in his running gear covered in sweat and gave him her Macleans smile.
‘Hello, Les,’ she said cheerfully. ‘You’re looking very fit and healthy this morning.’
She was wearing a pair of faded jeans that were so tight it was a miracle they hadn’t given her gangrene and a khaki T-shirt with Christian Dior across the front in white, probably a sample of what was in the carton.
‘G’day, Sandra,’ puffed Norton, trying his best to return her smile. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m trying to run off a hangover.’
‘Oh. Bit of a naughty boy last night, were you?’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘I finished up in that pub across the road. It was good while it lasted. But, Jesus, I’m crook now, I can tell you. What about yourself? What did you do?’
‘Went out for dinner with a friend, the one I was with when I waved to you. Then had an early night watching TV. Not like some other lucky people round here — I have to work this morning,’ she added with a grin.
Lying bitch, thought Les. He nodded to the carton of T-shirts. ‘You haven’t got much stuff there for a busy day at the Paddington Bazaar.’
Sandra shook her head. ‘This is just some stock I brought home from the studio. The rest is in a friend’s garage at Edgecliff.’
‘Yeah. I don’t suppose it would be too safe in here.’
The artist shook her head again. ‘We’ve had a few break-ins. Same with my paintings. I leave nearly all of them at the studio too.’
‘Fair enough. Would you like the nice caretaker to come over and change the locks for you?’
‘I tried that and the bastards stole the locks too. It’s good living in the Eastern Suburbs.’ Sandra took another hold on the carton of T-shirts. ‘Anyway, I’m off to work. I’ll see you later, Les.’
‘Yeah, righto. See you, Sandra.’
From where he was sitting, Les heard the old ute start and shortly after take off towards the hotel. He sat there for a few more minutes and was about to get up when the door opened again and out filed the hippies carrying their didgeridoos, a carton of absolute junk, a couple of rolled up mats and dressed as if they were on their way to join the chorus line in a remake of Hair. They couldn’t miss Les sitting where he was but
his vibes must have been bad or he was giving off bad karma or maybe he just looked uncool or really, incredibly freaky, or vibes to that effect so they ignored him. Norton was pretty shattered. Off to the Markets for another day of didgeridoo massaging are we, smelly ones? he thought. A few minutes later the old Kombi wheezed and coughed into life and headed off in the same direction as Sandra had. Have a really cosmic day guys, mused Les. Well, that’s two lots of my tenants gone. All I need now is...
Sure enough, the door opened again and the next thing Les knew, Rosie was slobbering all over him, tail banging away as she licked the sweat off his arms and face. It was like being attacked by someone with a soggy paint-roller.
‘Is that you there Les?’ Burt had the lead in one hand and his walking stick in the other. He had on his usual beret and a pair of dreadful fitting, cheap blue jeans.
‘Who else?’ replied Norton.
‘By golly, the old girl’s really taken a shine to you, you know.’
‘Yeah. I’ve always had this fatal attraction for women, Burt. They can’t resist me.’
Burt laughed and stood there as Rosie continued to slobber all over Les. Les felt like giving the old Labrador a quick left hook. But what could you do?
‘It looks like a nice day, Les,’ he said.
‘How would I know?’ replied Norton. ‘All I can see from down here is tongue.’
The old blind man laughed again. ‘Anyway, we have to do our Saturday shopping. Come along, Rosie. See you later, Les.’
‘Yeah, see you, Burt. Look after yourself.’
Norton sat there for another minute or two as the tap-tap-tapping of Burt’s cane disappeared up the street. Oh well, he chuckled to himself, at least I don’t need a shower now. But I’ll have one just the same. Still undecided whether he felt better or worse, Norton hauled himself to his feet and went inside.
After a shower and a huge drink of water, Norton did feel decidedly better. He still had his headache and he badly needed a feed; but at least he’d sweated most of the stale booze out of himself and he did feel alive. He got into a pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt and strolled down to The Spot where he got some T-bones, eggs, a packet of Codral Reds and a few other odds and ends.
Half an hour later, the pills were working and a big feed of steak and eggs was sitting on the table next to a mug of coffee and the morning papers. Don’t know who said life wasn’t meant to be easy, mused Norton, hacking off a piece of T-bone, but it sure wasn’t me. Before long that was all washed down with another mug of coffee and Les was figuring out what to do with himself for the rest of the day. I s’pose I should ring Woz and let him know I’m still alive. No, fuck the little weasel, he chuckled. He’s always wanting to know every detail of what I’m doing. Let him sweat. He heard the front door open and close a few times and figured out that the Heathen Harlots had finally surfaced. But after the pay they gave poor bloody Syd, Les wasn’t all that sure whether he wanted to meet them. He finished the papers then removed the racing section. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Have a stroll around Randwick Junction then make a few careful investments on the punt. I might even have a hair of the dog back at that pub and maybe another feed later on. Whatever I do, it’s going to be a nice leisurely day all round. I’ve got no phone, no one to annoy me and no one knows where I am.
The stroll amongst the shoppers in Randwick Junction was okay but it didn’t enthuse Norton all that much. As he strolled past the Steinberg Ringblum Estate Agency, he noticed the Sadducees were hard at work, but violating the Sabbath in the eyes of the Yaweh didn’t appear to be bothering Marvin and Isaac one little bit. Have a nice day in the temple, boys, he mused. Before long Les found himself back at the Royal with a middy of white old in one hand and his form guide in the other. There was a PUB-TAB, the crystal clear sky channel was beaming the race meetings in from all over Australia, and Les decided that was where he would spend the afternoon.
Four or five middies later, Les was immeshed in earnest conversation with several other astute judges of horseflesh and starting to get the taste for more, knowing that if he did, he’d end up doing another job on himself. He was also about $375 in front and knew if he didn’t pull up he’d put that back, plus. He put some more bets on, finished his beer and after reluctantly bidding his new-found friends adieu, he went back to the flat. A mug of coffee and a couple more Codral Reds got his head back together and had him realising it was much too nice a day to be inside. The beach and a swim would be the go. Then for some strange reason Les felt like doing a bit of caretaking — on his block of flats. Yes that’s what I’ll do, thought Norton, in his slightly, spaced-out state. I’m the landlord. I’ll run the broom over my block of flats, then I’ll go for a swim.
Norton took off his T-shirt, got the broom from the storeroom and started sweeping around the side passage and the front, picking up any rubbish or leaves and putting them in one of the Otto bins. For some odd reason he was whistling and even appeared to be enjoying what he was doing; probably because he was a bit boozy and light-headed from the headache pills. Ahh, this old block of flats ain’t all that bad, he thought. Like Sandra said, it’s got character. Yeah, all the weird characters that live here and all the characters that are rooting you. He did the laundry and the backyard, noticing a bit of underwear and some jeans and things on the line. Some of the underwear was pretty classy and sexy. Hello, he mused, maybe Elle McPherson is living in here somewhere and I don’t know it. She’s probably in there shacked up with Burt and Rosie. He began on the stairs knowing it was best if he started at the top and worked down. He climbed the stairs and was about to start sweeping, when the sound of music coming from the roof made him hesitate; and it wasn’t the sound of didgeridoos either. If Les wasn’t mistaken it was an old Richard Clapton number, ‘The Universal’. Well, I am the owner, he thought, I’d better go out and investigate. Also in my capacity as caretaker and cleaner it’s my duty to sweep the roof as well.
Holding the broom, Les stepped out onto the roof, straight into the po-faced stares of five girls. Even without their outrageous clothes and make-up, one look at their bodies and hairstyles told him who they were. They were all wearing sunglasses and various types of shorts. Two wore men’s singlets, two were topless and the dumpy blonde, whom Les recognised as the one in the school uniform, was wearing a plain blue shirt open at the front. The two topless ones were on banana chairs drinking wine coolers, the other two were seated cross-legged on a blanket playing backgammon and smoking a hash joint; the dumpy blonde was reading a Jackie Collins. There was a large ghetto blaster between the two banana chairs and next to it an esky full of ice, wine coolers and what looked like long-neck Tooheys Dry. It was warm on the roof, with a nice summer breeze blowing. The Heathen Harlots were obviously taking advantage of a pleasant, reasonably secluded Saturday afternoon in Sydney.
There was a sort of pregnant pause as the girls continued to stare expressionlessly at Les, while he, a little bemused, stared back at the girls. Finally, Norton spoke.
‘Hello, girls,’ he said, with a bit of a lopsided grin. ‘How are you goin’?’ There was a general muttering of ‘hello’ and ‘hi’ and a slow, deliberate nodding of heads. ‘You must be the girls in the band?’
The one Les recognised as the Elvira lookalike raised herself up on her banana chair, sucked in a lungful of air and poked out a massive pair of boobs. ‘Well, we certainly ain’t the boys in the band, handsome,’ she said huskily, à la Mae West.
This brought a bit of a titter from the girls, then the one with blonde and purple hair on the other banana chair spoke.
‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘Weren’t you leaning on that same broom when we came in yesterday morning?’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Norton. ‘I’m Les. I’m the new caretaker.’
‘New caretaker?’ said the copper-haired one who was playing backgammon. ‘What happened to little Hoppy?’
‘He went mad and the police shot him.’
‘What!!?’
‘
No,’ grinned Les. ‘He’s gone to live in Newcastle. I started here this week.’
‘Gone to Newcastle.’ Copper-hair turned to the one reading. ‘Did you hear that, Gwen? Your boyfriend’s split for Newcastle. Looks like you missed out again.’ Gwen gave a half smile and continued with her Jackie Collins.
Rather than stand there perving, Norton made a pretence of sweeping around the roof. Not that he wouldn’t have minded perving — the girls looked just as good, if not better, in their civvies than they did in their stage outfits. ‘Anyway, don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘I’ll just give this a quick once over, then I’ll leave you in peace.’
‘No, you’re right,’ the Elvira lookalike said slowly. ‘Just take your time.’
The bit of broom pushing downstairs had given Norton’s torso a sheen of sweat, and stripped to the waist there was no shortage of muscles bulging out around a rock-hard stomach. If Norton was having a sneak perv, the Heathen Harlots were straight out ogling him from behind their dark glasses; especially the Elvira lookalike. The dumpy blonde, however, seemed more interested in reading Rock Star.
‘I hear you had a bit of bad luck coming back from Canberra,’ said Norton, running the broom towards the edge of the roof.
‘Who told you that?’ said one of the backgammon players.
‘I got talking to Syd out the front,’ replied Les. ‘After you’d finished with him,’ he added with a grin.
‘Fuckin’ Syd,’ said the blonde on the banana chair. ‘I could’ve kicked the big dork right in the nuts for that. Fuckin’ idiot. What a prick of a night.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t entirely his fault,’ said the one looking up from her book.
The blonde stared at her for a second or two but didn’t say anything.
‘So you’re going to be our new caretaker, eh?’ said the Elvira lookalike. So far she’d barely taken her eyes off Les.
‘Yeah, it sure looks that way,’ replied Les, continuing to push the broom.
‘Well why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself, muscles. Do you want a beer?’
Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas Page 9