Warren had left for work early when Les got home. Norton got cleaned up and the first thing he did was ring Grigor and arrange to see him at ten-thirty. As taciturn as ever over the phone, the Romanian said that would be all right and little else. Norton had breakfast, read the paper, got into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and at ten headed for Enmore.
*
The same heavy opened the door of the restaurant, only this time he had a big smile and let Norton straight in. Grigor was seated at the same table, only without his brother. The heavy brought coffee and Les got straight to the point. He explained how he’d organised the street party to get everyone out of the flats and that there would probably be quite a number of people milling around out the front. Knowing how Grigor didn’t like to discuss certain matters over the phone, Les said that he thought it best he called over. Grigor liked that. He also agreed that even though there was no problem in the first place, the explosion would now look exactly as Les had hoped: a power overload caused by the band. Grigor added that he and his brother would add a little something to the mix to make sure there was a great shower of sparks before the fireball. In the meantime, don’t worry and don’t bother to get in touch. The next time they would meet would be when he and Vaclav returned from Tasmania. Norton finished his coffee and wished Grigor good fishing.
Well, thought Norton, as he drove back to the Eastern Suburbs, that was only a minor detail I suppose, but now at least Grigor knows exactly what’s going on. And it’s always better to be sure than sorry. Now, there’s only one other little thing I can think of. Norton glanced at his watch. It’s not even lunchtime. With a bit of luck maybe I can knock this one on the head at the same time. As he pulled up just down from Blue Seas Apartments, he was pleased to see, as he walked up from his car, Sandra’s old white utility out the front. He was even more pleased to see, as he peeked over the fence, the red-headed artist was hanging out some washing on the line in the back yard. Norton hurried to the storeroom, got the yard-broom and slowly and casually pushed it around the corner to ‘accidentally’ bump into Sandra.
‘G’day, Sandra,’ he said easily, moving the broom around some leaves and other bits of rubbish. ‘How’s things?’
Sandra turned around in her skin tight, stone-washed jeans and equally tight red tank top and gave Les one of those smiles that despite his feelings towards her now, nearly made him want to break the broom over his head.
‘Oh, hello...’ she appeared to think for a moment. ‘Les. How are you?’
‘Not too bad,’ replied Norton. ‘Just doing what a good little caretaker should be doing.’ Sandra smiled as she continued hanging out her washing. Norton kept sweeping, pushing the rubbish into a small pile near the fence. ‘That party should be a ripper on Saturday night,’ he said.
‘Party?’ said Sandra, pausing momentarily from what she was doing. ‘What party?’
Norton stared dumbly at the artist for a second then screwed up his face in mock remorse. ‘Ohh, Christ!’ he said, making a futile gesture at the air. ‘Me and my big bloody mouth. I’m not supposed to have said anything. Bugger it.’
Sandra stopped what she was doing and stared directly at Les. ‘Just what are you talking about, Les?’
Norton affected a sheepish grin. ‘Ahh, shit! I wasn’t supposed to have said anything.’ Sandra’s eyes narrowed. ‘I was talking to the girls on the roof the other day.’
‘Franulka and the girls in the band?’
‘Yeah. I just happened to mention that this Saturday was your birthday. And right out of the blue they decided to throw a surprise street party out the front.’
‘A street party?’
‘Yeah. They’re going to call it the Prince Charles birthday bash, ’cause it’s his birthday too. But really, it’s a surprise birthday party for you. And I’ve gone and given the bloody thing away.’ Norton shook his head in disgust. ‘Jesus, I’m a nice bloody goose!’
Sandra continued to stare at Les. ‘A surprise birthday party, just for me. I don’t know what to say.’
‘I know what bloody Franulka will say when she finds out you know. Stuff it.’ Norton kicked at the pile of rubbish in mock annoyance then turned to Sandra, anguish and remorse etched deep in his craggy face. ‘Look Sandra, do us a favour, will you?’
‘Sure, Les.’
‘Don’t let on to the girls that you know anything.’
Sandra smiled and gave a dainty shrug of her smooth, brown shoulders. ‘Yeah, that’s okay. Though I have to admit, I do feel rather flattered.’
‘Yeah. It certainly is nice of them. So just make sure you’re there on Saturday night, and act like you don’t know anything. Okay?’
‘No worries.’
‘And if you should see me, or anyone else, stacking up stuff out the front, just sort of, you know... edge your way around it.’
‘I understand, Les. I won’t say a word.’
‘Ohh, good.’ Norton looked relieved and began sweeping the rubbish again. ‘I know one thing for sure. The way the girls were talking, it’s going to be one hell of a party.’
‘Yes. Knowing them, I’m sure it will be.’
‘Anyway, I’ll get this finished and get out of your road. Before I put my bloody big foot in it again. I’ll see you later, Sandra. And remember, not a word.’
‘You needn’t worry, Les. No one will know a thing. Bye bye.’
‘Good on you, Sandra. See you later.’ Norton gave her another sheepish grin and pushed the pile of rubbish around the side passage.
As soon as he was out of sight, Norton tossed the broom back in the storeroom and hurried back to his car. Christ, he thought, as he got behind the wheel, if ever they make lying an event at the Olympic Games, I’d take out a gold medal every time. He gave a quick smile towards the sky. I’m not really a liar, you know — I’ve just got a bad grip on the truth, that’s all. But at least she’ll be there for sure now, thinking she’s the belle of the ball — instead of in her flat bonking some bloke when the place goes up. As Norton drove past the old block of flats an evil grin broke out across his face. Well, goodbye, Blue Seas Apartments, my million-dollar investment. The next time I see you, you cockroach-infested pile of shit, you’ll look like Hiroshima in 194S. And fuckin’ good riddance too. Norton drove home and made a bit of lunch.
He pottered around the house for the rest of the afternoon mulling things over in his head; but there was nothing he could think of now to get unduly concerned about. It was all go. He thought of giving Price and Billy a ring, but decided to leave it till tomorrow. Before he knew it, it was getting on for five o’clock and time to get ready for work.
Norton reflected on what it would be like working in a kitchen; greasy, smelly and fuckin’ hot. And from what his recollection of the surroundings, the waitress and the food, the last and only time he was at the Devlin Dining Room, it wouldn’t be any different. He got into his daggiest pair of jeans, most worn out running shoes and an old blue T-shirt with ‘Kings Cross’ on the front that he never wore. He tossed a sweat band made from a red T-shirt, that was so old and faded from sweat it was closer to pink, and a couple of pieces of fruit into a small overnight bag and headed for Coogee.
Devlin Place was little more than a dead end running off Coogee Bay Road between the Coogee Motel and a music shop called Guitar City about half a kilometre up from the beach. There was a Chinese restaurant next to the motel. On the opposite side of the road there were a beautician, a video shop and several other small businesses, as well as a few old semis and an equally old Spanish style block of flats. The Devlin Dining Room was part of the motel, with the main window fronting on to the street. The motel driveway ran between the restaurant and the office with the entrance to the restaurant in the driveway. Norton found a parking spot not far from the music shop, locked his car and walked down.
He paused momentarily out the front of the restaurant and looked in the window. It was much the same as the last and only time he’d been there. Tan brickwork out the front
, same as the motel, and inside was a mishmash of red and brown over well-worn brown carpet.
There were about a dozen or so tables with red tablecloths, a goldfish tank near the entrance and a few prints and cheap paintings on the walls. The menu was written up on a large blackboard next to a swing door that led into the kitchen and that was about it. Maxims de Paris it wasn’t. Norton had a squint through the window at the menu which appeared to be a mixture of French provincial and home style cooking. He decided to go in the back rather than walk through the restaurant.
The back entrance to the restaurant was to the right of the motel, in a small courtyard bricked off from the motel car park, the entrance itself being a rickety flyscreen door full of holes situated next to the toilets. The door faced a brick building that was probably a storeroom of some sort and the rest of the small restaurant courtyard was full of old cartons, a couple of garbage bins, a mop and bucket and what looked like about two hundred thousand filthy, empty bottles. Some dust-caked windows in the kitchen faced this uninspiring scene and that was about it. Norton shook his head, rapped on the flyscreen door and stepped inside.
Still wearing the same jeans and T-shirt he’d had on at the hotel, Quigley was standing at a large, old wooden table in the middle of the kitchen, trimming a fillet of beef. He glanced up at Les and gave him a brief smile that was again as much a smirk as anything else.
‘Hello, Les,’ he said quietly.
‘G’day Bob. How’s things?’
Quigley glanced at his watch. ‘Right on time.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘It’s only about ten minutes from my place.’
The kitchen wasn’t all that big, barely four metres by six. As he stood there watching Quigley, Les had a quick, clockwise look around. Next to the back door and beneath the windows was a double sink that Norton tipped hadn’t seen a sprinkle of Ajax since the 2nd AIF came back from Gallipoli. Next to it was a small dishwasher that looked like a cut-down iron lung and in pretty much the same condition as the sink. A shelf ran from it into the corner, above which was a cupboard full of plates and soup dishes. Next was an ancient, eight burner stove and oven behind where Quigley was standing, with a pot full of something boiling away on top. Next to it at about eye level, was a sort of oven or pie warmer and beneath this were three, small deep freezes which ran from the corner to the wall of the kitchen fridge. The door to this was next to the swing door that lead to the dining room. There was a pantry in the other corner, then more cupboards and shelves full of plates and cups, tablecloths, napkins and other restaurant junk that ran down to a hot water urn near the back door.
In the middle of the kitchen was the huge, old table where Quigley was standing, on which were chopping boards, bowls of herbs, stacks of butter, tins, vegetables, jars of spices, carving knives, whisks, ladles and other restaurant odds and ends. Between the table and the freezer wall sat a small chest of drawers that held the cutlery. The floor was grey lino and everything else was either yellow, brown or black and all grimy, greasy and badly in need of a bucket of hot water, a scrubbing brush and some Flash. God, what a bloody pit, thought Norton. Did I really eat here once? I thought they closed places like this down after they sprung Oliver Twist.
It was warm outside but the kitchen was hotter. Norton found a place amongst the tablecloths for his overnight bag, took out his sweat band and looked at Quigley.
‘Well, Bob. What do you want me to do?’
The way Quigley looked at him, Les was convinced he must have ‘24 Carat Mug’ written across his forehead in luminous green paint. Oh well. Let him think what he likes, thought Les, wrapping an old sweatband around his head.
‘You know how to cut up vegetables, Les?’
‘Sure.’
‘Okay. Start on those carrots and broccoli.’
Norton picked up a small carving knife and gave it a couple of hits on a steel while Quigley showed him how he wanted the vegetables cut up then put into two containers of water which were nothing more than grimy, battered, plastic ice cream cartons. While Les was doing this Quigley pointed out where everything was and what it was and showed him how to work the dishwasher and where the dishracks for it were kept. He told Les not to throw out anything that came back on the plates — all foodscraps went into two plastic buckets under the table one for meat scraps the other for vegetables. Any vegetables that looked like they hadn’t been touched went into another ice cream container on the table.
While Norton chopped away, Quigley drank bottles of Powers and constantly smoked cigarettes while he told Norton how good the food was in his restaurant, how good it was going, how good a chef he was, how good his car was going, and how many sheilas he was throwing up in the air. He also added that he was doing a job on one of the waitresses who was nineteen.
Norton felt like pulling a few squelches on Quigley and asking him who was he trying to kid — the place was a brothel, the food was ordinary at the best of times, and didn’t he think Les had ever had a root? But he changed his mind, deciding to act the dummy and kept nodding his head as Quigley went on with his bullshit, almost as if he was awe struck. Norton cut up the vegetables plus some par-boiled potatoes in their jackets and some herbs and was beginning to think that, apart from putting up with Quigley’s ego-tripping the work was pretty easy and the next three nights could even be a bit of fun.
‘That’ll be plenty of vegetables, Les.’
‘Righto, Bob.’
Quigley wiped his hands on a greasy teatowel and lit another cigarette. ‘I’m going inside to change the menu around. I’ll get you to clean out the fridge.’
Quigley told Les where the mop and bucket were and to get the Ajax and a scrubbing brush. Any ideas Norton had of the job being ‘a bit of fun’ quickly disappeared as soon as he saw inside the fridge. It was about two metres by four with racks and benches round the walls and it was even filthier than the kitchen. There were chewed up cartons of butter and other food on the floor amongst plastic containers of cream and milk. Tubs of vegetables and fruit and trays of half-cooked meat and chicken sat on the racks — everything from floor to ceiling was covered in slime, grease and other gunk, and several broken eggs sat amongst congealed blood on the dirty, wooden floor. Two thoughts struck Norton as he took it all in: the bastard who had been there before him must have had a nice holiday, and how come a health inspector hadn’t put his head in before now? It was botulism city. Norton shook his head for a moment, then began stacking the contents of the fridge onto the floor outside so that he could mop the fridge out. Besides the cartons of food, there were half-empty bottles of wine and soft drink and cartons of Powers and other beers, which Norton tipped were leftovers from the restaurant and Quigley’s private stash.
With a bit of elbow grease, Norton got into it, and got the fridge cleaned up about three hundred per cent better than what it was. At one stage he went out into the kitchen to get some more hot water, when what must have been one of the waitresses arrived. She was skinny, with straight, black hair, and was wearing a pair of black ski pants and a white top. She was definitely no oil painting, with black circles under her eyes and lines around her mouth, and if this was the nineteen-year-old Quigley was knocking off she must have been fighting six rounders since she was fifteen — she looked closer to thirty. She totally ignored Les as she threw a purse, a packet of cigarettes and her car keys onto the bench near the pantry. She got a bottle of Bundaberg Rum from the pantry, poured enough in a glass to start up a two-stroke motor, and hit it with a smidgen of ice and Coca Cola. She glugged half of it down, then lit a cigarette and walked out into the dining room. Fuckin’ hell, thought Les, as he waved away the fumes and the cloud of cigarette smoke she left behind. It’s lucky she didn’t blow us both up.
Norton cleaned out the fridge and restacked it about the same time as Quigley finished whatever he was doing in the dining room.
Quigley had a glance round the fridge and gave it a look of grudging approval. ‘That’s good, Les,’ he said.
Good? thought Norton. You’re fuckin’ kidding, aren’t you? I’ll bet it’s the first time it’s seen any hot water in a year. ‘Yeah,’ he nodded, washing his hands in the sink. ‘It was a bit of a mess. How long has the other bloke been working here?’
‘Layton? Oh, about six months or so. You know him do you? Layton Mitner?’
Norton shook his head. ‘Can’t say I do.’
‘He’ll be in later. He’s an old mate of mine.’
If he’s half as grubby and half as big a smartarse as you, Quigley, thought Norton, I can’t wait. ‘So what do you want me to do now?’
There’s a kilo of prawns in the fridge. Peel them, then I’ll get you to make some garlic bread.’
Norton got the prawns from the freezer and began peeling them, putting the peeled ones into another battered ice cream container. Quigley pottered around in front of him, trimming beef and chickens and preparing other things for the restaurant. Norton was going to start up a bit of a conversation, then he thought no, bugger it. The three lousy nights I’m here I’ll just act the complete wally and switch right off — what’s there to talk about anyway? He was relieved when Quigley turned on a radio that was sitting on top of the pie-warmer; even though it was barely audible. But, Norton’s relief turned to further frustration when he found it was tuned to one of those Western Suburbs stations that churned out nothing but golden oldies, greatest memories and takeaway food ads one after the other. With Bobby Goldsboro moaning his way through ‘Honey’ followed by Roy Orbison and ‘Blue Bayou’ Norton knew that Saturday night couldn’t come quickly enough.
After a while the skinny waitress came back in, poured another rum and coke and lit another cigarette. ‘That’s all the tables done, Robert,’ she coughed. ‘I might go through the bookings.’
‘Okay, Carol,’ answered Quigley.
Even though they hadn’t been introduced, the waitress still ignored Les, who didn’t actually go out of his way to smile and catch her eye either. She gulped down her rum and Coke then without bothering to say ‘excuse me’, grabbed a handful of the prawns Norton had peeled, shoved them on a buttered bread roll and began gnawing at it while she smoked her cigarette at the same time. Norton was trying to remember the last time he’d come across a pig like her — probably lying in a gutter somewhere a few streets up from the Kelly Club. She moved to the opposite side of the table and got into a muted conversation with Quigley, as pieces of bread and prawns fell from her mouth onto the floor. Under closer scrutiny she was even skinnier than he’d thought; she reminded Les of Popeye’s girlfriend Olive Oyle, and if it hadn’t been for her Adam’s apple, she would have had no shape at all. The way they talked, it was now obvious that she was the one Quigley was skiting about rooting. Lucky guy, thought Les. Wish I could find myself a young spunk like her. He peeled on and after a while Quigley actually showed a modicum of manners.
Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas Page 18