Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas

by Robert G. Barrett

  Norton drained his coffee and grabbed a couple of oranges. A run in Centennial Park wouldn’t go astray. He changed into a pair of shorts and did just that.

  While he was jogging through the grass and around the ponds Les mulled Saturday night over and over in his head. There was only one loose cannon that needed tying down now, not an overly important one, but a detail that could be fixed up with a phone call and that would definitely be it. There was another thing on his mind that he wasn’t quite one hundred per cent sure about, but it had nothing to do with the party. Just the flats.

  After his run and a half hour or so of exercises Les returned home, got cleaned up and into a clean pair of jeans and T-shirt. After a decent breakfast, Les got on the phone and attended to the loose cannon. Warren’s indexed address book was next to the phone; he opened it, thumbed to D for Dapto and dialled the number.

  ‘Hello. Could I speak to Larry Dapto, please.’

  Dapto was an easy going if somewhat overweight rock promoter, who sometimes wore a beard and sometimes didn’t. He was a good friend of Warren and had worked with him in a couple of advertising agencies. He’d got out of the game to promote a couple of those mini Woodstock-type rock festivals. Les had got to know him through Warren and had bumped into him at parties, and up at the Kelly Club and round about. Larry loved his food and drink and a one-liner and was now in the film game. He’d co-produced a couple of Australian movies but was now concentrating on making rock videos from his home somewhere in Paddington. Les always found Dapto easy going enough and evidently the only time he ever got the shits was when he blossomed out to sixteen stone and some friends in an advertising agency where he was working entered him in a Meatloaf look-alike contest. To this day Dapto never found out who it was; but he’d never lost his sense of humour.

  ‘This is Larry speaking.’

  ‘Hello, Larry. It’s Les Norton.’

  ‘Les. Hello, saaannn. How’s things?’

  ‘Pretty good, mate. How’s yourself?’

  ‘As a bean man. As a bean.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘So Les, me old China. What can I do you for?’

  ‘Larry. Are you still into making rock videos?’

  ‘Certainly am, saaannn.’

  ‘Well, I might have something for you. These sheilas with a band are having a street party this Saturday night. It’s for a friend, but I know they’re really gonna turn it on. It might be an idea for you to go out and film it.’

  ‘What’s the band?’

  ‘The Heathen Harlots.’

  ‘The Heathen Harlots! Hey man, they’re a fucking hot outfit — stuck with a wombat manager who should be cleaning brascoes.’

  ‘Yeah. Like I said, it’s for a friend’s birthday or something, but they’re doing a whole lot of new songs and all. It might be worth your time to get a bit of a crew together and go out and film it.’

  ‘Hey, not good enough, saann. This sounds unfucking-real.’

  ‘It will be, Larry. But if you do go, don’t tell the sheilas I told you about it. I think they’re trying to keep it a bit on the quiet side.’

  ‘As a bean, saaann. No worries.’

  Norton gave Dapto the address and told him roughly what time it would be starting. He himself wouldn’t be there till late as he had a job he had to go to but he’d see him there some time or other. Dapto thanked Les again and said there was a definite drink in it for him. Les said thanks. They exchanged one or two more pleasantries then Les hung up.

  Well, that’s about it, smiled Les. I can’t think of another thing. If those sheilas see Dapto out there with his camera they’ll probably think he’s something to do with the bloke from America. Though as long as those foul-mouthed molls are getting paid, I don’t think they’d give a stuff if Larry was from one of the moons around Jupiter. Now, is there anyone else left to con? No, I reckon that’s about it. But I also reckon it’s about time I gave my ever lovin’ boss a ring. It’s been almost two weeks.

  The casino owner’s answering machine was off and Les got straight onto him.

  ‘Hello, Price. It’s Les.’

  ‘Les, me old son.’ Price sounded ecstatic. ‘How are you mate?’

  ‘Pretty good, Price. How’s yourself?’

  ‘Good as gold. Wouldn’t be dead for quids.’

  ‘That’s the style. I rang a couple of times, but all I got was your answering service.’

  ‘Yeah. I rang back, but you must have been out. What have you been up to, old fellah?’

  ‘Ohh, not much. Just taking it easy. Getting a few early nights for a change. Going to the beach and that.’

  ‘Billy said he rang you. You know what’s going on up the club?’

  ‘Yeah. Sounds like you’re copping it sweet yourself. Playing five hundred and that with your mates. What else have you been up to?’

  ‘That’s about it, Les. Finish there and go straight home. Getting plenty of early nights myself for a change.’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt.’

  ‘Ohh, you can say that again. You seen Billy lately?’

  ‘No,’lied Les.

  ‘Wait till you do. He looks like a million dollars. Training like mad, lost over half a stone. He’s got me thinking I might even start having a run myself. Hey, you know if you want to come up and do a night, it’s sweet.’

  ‘No, that’s okay, Price. Leave it to Billy. He’s got a family to support.’

  ‘Fair enough. But if you’re short of a quid...’

  ‘No, that’s all right, Price. I’m plugging along okay.’

  ‘From what they tell me, I think you’ve got more money squirrelled away than any of us.’

  ‘I wish you were right,’ chuckled Les.

  ‘So when are you going to call up one night? Just have a drink or a coffee. Or call over home for a feed one day. Jesus! Don’t make a complete stranger of yourself, Les.’

  ‘No, I’ll be up soon. In fact, I reckon there’s a good chance I might even see you over the weekend.’

  ‘Okay. Do that for sure.’

  ‘All right, Price. Well, I’ll get cracking. And I’ll see you shortly.’

  ‘Righto, Les. Good to hear from you, mate.’

  Norton smiled at the phone for a while after he hung up. Well, while I’m here, I may as well give young William a ring.’

  There was no mistaking Billy Dunne’s voice over the phone.

  ‘How’s Billy the kid?’

  ‘Is that you, Les?’

  ‘Yeah. How are you, mate?’

  ‘Good, mate. What’s doing? I thought you might have been around to do a bit of training with me.’

  ‘I was, Billy, but you look that fit I don’t know whether I’m game.’

  Billy laughed. ‘I’m fit. But I ain’t that fit.’

  ‘Yeah, I dunno. Listen, I rang Price. Thanks for saying you haven’t seen me.’

  ‘That’s okay, mate. No worries.’

  ‘So, how’s it going up the club? Everything sweet?’

  ‘Yeah, couldn’t be creamier. We’re starting to get out by around twelve now.’

  ‘Half your luck. And while we’re talking about luck, I might even have a little something for you, Billy, old pal.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. A reward for your fabulous powers of deduction, Holmes. A nice, lazy five grand.’

  ‘Five grand! Fuckin’ hell!’ Billy paused on the phone for a moment. ‘Hey, wait a minute. You didn’t do what I think ...’

  ‘Exactly, Holmes.’

  ‘You...’ Billy couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You’re a nogood cunt, Les. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Indeed I do, William,’ laughed Les. ‘And you can give me a lecture on the evils of drugs and a jolly good thrashing too. Next week, when I drop the five gorillas in your skyrocket.’

  They talked and laughed for a while with Billy realising Les didn’t want to say too much over the phone. But when Les hung up, Billy was looking forward to seeing his old mate early next w
eek; five grand or no five grand.

  Well, that’s about it thought Les. Nothing to do now but wait until Saturday night, then on Sunday go and inspect the charred remains of my sumptuous villa with tears in my eyes. I suppose I could take a run over to Whittle’s and get him to snooker away the rest of that bikie money. No, fuck it, I’ll leave it till next week. It’s safe where it is. A bit of a craggy grin crept across Norton’s face. In the meantime, I guess I’m just stuck between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas. What a way to go.

  It wasn’t much of a day outside. Norton spent the rest of it pottering around the house and yard and doing a bit of work on his car, then he cooked a feed. One half of him was trying to put the old block of flats out of his mind; the other half was still hoping to Christ nothing would go wrong. Before he knew it, it was time to go and bundy on at the restaurant. He put on an old, white Billabong T-shirt and threw a white sweat-band in his ovemight-bag. At least this time, as he reluctantly drove over to Coogee, he knew what to expect.

  Quigley was in the same place at the table when Les walked in that night, trimming beef or whatever, with a beer and a cigarette in one hand and still wearing the same T-shirt he was wearing on Wednesday. Christ, thought Les, I’ll bet he whistles and the fuckin’ thing jumps up off the floor onto his back.

  ‘G’day, Bob,’ he said, stowing his overnight bag in the same place as before. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘All right, Les,’ replied Quigley slowly, giving Norton a look that said he was now totally convinced that Les had ‘prime Australian galah’ stencilled across his forehead in capital letters.

  Norton stood at the table and wrapped his sweatband on. ‘So, what do you want me to do? Chop up some more vegetables?’

  ‘No,’ answered Quigley. ‘There’s not that many bookings tonight. I might get you to do something else first.’

  Bookings? mused Les. Do people actually book to eat in this rat’s nest?

  ‘I might get you to do the stove.’

  Norton’s heart sank and his anger rose at the same time; he knew exactly what to expect. You greasy, stinken, fuckin’ piece of shit, Quigley. You’re sure getting your pound of flesh out of me, aren’t you, you prick?

  ‘There’s a stack of newspapers in the pantry. Get them and I’ll show you what to do.’

  Norton got the bundle of newspapers and spread them out on the floor around the stove. Quigley switched it off and moved the demi-glace. Les put on his rubber gloves, removed the rings and burners and got into it. It had to be one of the filthiest jobs Norton had ever done — it was everything he could do to stop himself from telling Quigley to get fucked and walking out. There were literally gallons of putrid, rancid fat and blackened grease on the bottom of the stove, full of food scraps, cigarette butts, matches, dead cockroaches and flies, scraps of cloth, paper and other gunk that not even the CSIRO laboratories could identify. It had been that long since the stove had been cleaned parts of it were solidified, and Les had to smash them apart with a hammer and a big screwdriver. Fat and grease went everywhere; on his face, in his hair, all over his clothes. The more Les scrubbed the more shit there seemed to be; and all the time Les could feel Quigley sniggering at him. Well, this might be hard, fumed Norton, but I know what’s going to be harder. Stopping myself from tearing both Quigley and his mug mate Layton apart if he comes in here gobbing off later on tonight.

  He got the stove cleaned and put back together with not so much as a compliment or a thanks from Quigley. Olive Oyle arrived with a crash of car keys, a giant slurp of rum and Coke followed by a cloud of cigarette smoke. She didn’t bother to say hello to Les. But she had a big smile and a hello for ‘Robert’ before disappearing in another cloud of cigarette smoke into the dining room to do whatever it was she did with the tables. After that it was the same routine as the night before; chop vegetables and herbs, wash pots and pans and get this and that for Quigley. The only variation: Quigley had about a dozen half-rotten bream in a bucket which he got Les to gut and scale. It was all Norton could do to stop from throwing up.

  Although he’d managed to clean himself up a bit, Les still stank of rotten fish and rancid grease when waitress number two arrived with more crashing of car keys, a huge slurp of cheap Scotch and another cloud of cigarette smoke thick enough to lose a bus in. Like Olive Oyle, Mendle As Anything didn’t bother to say hello to Les; she said hello to ‘Robert’, though, then joined the other waitress in the dining room.

  Norton switched off and soldiered on. The radio groaned out Tom Jones’ ‘Green Green Grass Of Home’ and as the night ground on, Les was wishing that was where he was. A few meals went out and at one stage, as Les got something from the fridge, he had a quick glance through the small window in the swing door that led to the dining room. There were barely eight customers in the restaurant but at least twice that many had come to the back door; mostly the same young surfie types like the night before. Once again, they’d look at Les, go over to Quigley who’d go to the cupboard in the comer, money would again change hands, the surfies would leave and Les Norton, the prize dummy, would chop or wash away as if nothing was happening.

  Quigley lit another cigarette and went to the toilet at the same time both waitresses were in the dining room. Les had a quick look around then opened the cupboard in the corner. There was a small, rectangular, plastic container sitting on a pile of plates. At one end of it were several small, al-foil squares which Norton tipped were grams of hash. At the other end were a number of small plastic bags about a third full of white powder. Les tipped this to be speed — the customers coming to the back door weren’t on the nod or scratching at themselves like strung-out smackies and the way they were dressed he sure as hell doubted if they could afford cocaine. Not a bad little business you’ve got here, Quigley, mused Norton, closing the cupboard door. The food goes out the front door; the dope goes out the back door.

  Then it dawned on Norton what else was going on. Layton was Quigley’s supplier who also worked in the restaurant doing as little as possible while they washed the money. No wonder Quigley didn’t worry too much if he didn’t get run off his feet with customers. And by Layton’s attitude and the way he gobbed off at Les as if he was eight feet tall, Layton was an obvious cokehead. He was probably taking a few nights off — then after Les had cleaned the place up he’d be back and Les would get the arse. Quigley came back in and Norton watched the owner’s reflection in the kitchen window as he bent over the sink. You shifty pair of smartarse cunts.

  As he was watching Quigley, a young kid who couldn’t have been a day over fifteen came to the back door carrying a skateboard. He looked at Les, went over to Quigley and the same ritual went on behind Norton’s back. Norton was disgusted. This wasn’t just someone moving a bit of green around between a few friends or whatever. These were two slimy dealers who would sell dope to anyone just to get their money so they could shove half of it up their nose. Les spat in the sink. He’d never given anyone up in his life, but as soon as was finished in this shithouse he’d be dropping thirty cents on these two arseholes.

  The word arsehole had barely flashed through Norton’s mind when who should come charging in the back door, his eyes reddened and spinning around from an obvious snout full of blow, but Layton. Here it comes, thought Norton, gritting his teeth as he shoved a rack of dishes in the dishwasher. Layton was wearing his Friday night kill ’em gear; black jeans, brown shoes and a black shirt he must have ironed by rolling up in a Holland blind. He stank of Brut aftershave and if Les wasn’t mistaken he’d had his hair permed. Layton totally ignored Les, he said a quick hello to Quigley then let the two girls know Joe Cool was in town and swanned around in front of them for a while. Eventually he went across to Quigley. Norton knew what Quigley was going to say five minutes before he opened his mouth.

  ‘I’ll get you to take that garbage out, Les,’ said the owner. ‘Those ahh... fish heads are starting to go through the kitchen.’

  ‘Yeah, righto, Bob,’ replied Les, happy anyw
ay to be able to get out of the cigarette smoke for a few minutes.

  Norton pulled the garbage bag out, tied the top and headed for the dump-bin at the rear of the motel. As he rounded the corner from the toilets, Les stopped and looked back. Quigley and Layton were once again in the corner doing their hustle. Les shook his head, spat on the ground and continued on down the drive.

  Back in the kitchen he put his head down as he scrubbed some pots in the sink and told himself to be cool while he waited for Layton to start mouthing off. Only one more night to go, Les. One more, that’s all. After a few minutes talking with Quigley, Layton went over to the urn and made a cup of coffee. He looked at Quigley, then at Norton and smiled.

  ‘I see you’re wearing your white headband tonight, Les,’ he said, adding his giggly laugh. ‘Is that the go with all the poofters up the Cross, is it? Pink ones Thursday. White ones Friday. It matches your T-shirt this time though.’

  Norton stared ahead and gritted his teeth. Only one more night, Les. Just one. That’s all.

  ‘I suppose you’re missing your mates up the Cross tonight, Les.’ Layton turned to the others. ‘Friday night’s the big night for all the poofters. Especially if you’ve got a white headband and a matching T-shirt.’ This was accompanied by another burst of giggling laughter. The two half-pissed waitresses must have thought this amusing; they gave a bit of a titter as they took some more meals out to the dining room. Then Layton started sniffing the air. He turned from Quigley to Les. ‘Hey, Les, I thought you took all those fish heads out? Something still stinks in here.’ He moved over and began sniffing Norton. ‘Oh, it’s only you, Les. Is that your last boyfriend’s aftershave?’ Les was seething.

  Then Layton picked a piece of stove grease from Norton’s hair. ‘Hey what’s this? Did he blow in your hair, Les?’ He gave a great giggle of laughter. ‘I reckon you’d give a good head job, Les. You’d have the experience.’

  That was it for Norton. Fuck waiting till next week. He picked up a pan from the sink and was just about to backhand Layton with it right in the mouth when the phone near the pantry rang. The two girls were in the dining room, Quigley had his hands full and Norton of course, wasn’t expected to have brains enough to be able to talk over the phone.