‘Hey, will you grab that, Layton?’ said Quigley.
‘Yeah, righto, Bob.’ Layton took his coffee, walked over and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello. Devlin.’ Then he smiled over at Quigley. ‘It’s for me, Bob.’
Quigley nodded his head, Les put the pan back in the sink and let out a massive lungful of pent-up rage.
Layton talked and giggled on the phone for a while then hung up and got a plate of food. He slung off at Norton a couple more times but kept his hands off him, seeming more content to swan around in front of the two waitresses. Eventually he left, saying goodbye to everyone but Norton and once again leaving his plate for Les to scrape off and clean.
Norton was now filthier on himself than ever for taking on this job. He had over sixty grand sitting in his wardrobe and could have been out somewhere, anywhere in Australia, having a ball. Instead, he was in a smoke-filled dump putting up with idiots and taking shit from two penny-ante dope dealers. The only semblance of a pat on the back he could give himself was the amount of restraint he’d shown. But he swore to himself that, even if Quigley laid him off tomorrow night, he was coming back next Thursday and kicking Layton from one end of the restaurant to the other. And Quigley too, if he put his head in. Then he was ringing a bloke he knew in the drug squad.
The night dragged on. Quigley and his two waitresses smoked about two hundred cigarettes while they all got drunk and the radio churned out all the worst possible pop music from the sixties and seventies. Norton couldn’t ever remember being so down in the dumps and dirty on himself. In fact, he was starting to get dirty on the world. But the night had to end sooner or later, and it did; just after twelve. Quigley paid Les from a little black cash-box near the pantry, slinging him an extra five dollars and making a big man of himself for doing it, then he pissed Les off without once again the offer of a beer or a thank you but a ‘be here at five thirty tomorrow’. Norton left the three of them to carry on with what ever they did, more than glad to be out of the stinken joint.
Oh well, thought Les, sitting behind the wheel of his car. Only one more night to go. Then it’ll be my turn to have a laugh. And a big one. And as for restraint, I’d better not kid myself. If that phone hadn’t rung I’d have wrapped that dirty black frying pan right around that dope-dealing arsehole’s head. Again Les felt tired, drawn and dirtier than ever and was looking forward to a shower and a good night’s sleep. Then it dawned on him that Blue Seas was just up the road and this was about its last night on earth. He looked at his watch, twenty past twelve, and smiled to himself. I might go up and just have one last look at the old block of flats and see who’s around.
He pulled up in Soudan Street, down from and opposite to the garage on the corner, switched off the engine, and sat in the car listening to the radio while he stared ahead in a bemused sort of way at Blue Seas Apartments. There was scarcely any moon and in the streetlight the old block of flats seemed to look even more decrepit than ever. Sandra’s utility was out the front and so was the hippies’ kombi-van. It was almost sad in a way. The old block of flats probably had its share of memories in its day and it was hard to believe it was once a clean, modern block of flats and that the suburb running down to Coogee, with its trams and aquarium, was almost a holiday resort area. Christ, I wonder what will be here tomorrow night? thought Les. Fire engines, police, people running around everywhere. And a dirty great pile of glowing ashes where the old flats used to be. I just hope no one gets hurt. That’s all.
He glanced at his watch again just as the grey BMW swung into Aquila Street and pulled up not far from Sandra’s old white utility. Well, what do you know, mused Norton, the hint of a smile flickering round the comers of his eyes. Right on time. The familiar spritely figure in the trench coat and hat got out, had a quick, furtive look around, then walked briskly into the foyer. Well, I’ll say one thing. Whoever you are mate, you sure don’t mind a bit of a late night root. Then Les chuckled out loud. But I’d make this one a good one, if I were you. I reckon it might be your last for a while. In my block of flats, anyway. Still chuckling to himself, Norton started the car and headed home, looking forward more than ever to having a shower and going straight to bed.
Norton was up the following morning around eight-thirty, not sure whether he was pleased to find it almost a perfect, sunny day or not. One thing he did know. After seven-odd hours in that smelly kitchen he had no trouble getting to sleep. The heat from the oven left him dried out and drained and the fumes from the others’ non-stop cigarette smoking made the air outside the Kelly Club in Kings Cross seem like a walk through a pine forest in the Snowy Mountains. He made a cup of coffee and sipped it on the back verandah as he gazed out into the back yard. Oh well, one thing’s for sure. It’ll be a good night for a party. The papers were out the front; he brought them in and was flicking through them at the kitchen table when Warren surfaced around nine. He was sort of smiling at Norton in his blue velour shave-coat and for a Saturday morning, after his customary Friday night on the piss, he hadn’t brushed up too bad.
‘Do you have to make so much fuckin’ noise out here, Les? You know I like to have a sleep in on Saturday morning.’
‘Sorry, Warren,’ replied Norton. ‘I didn’t realise my reading was disturbing you. Next time I’ll put the fuckin’ TV on.’
‘Inconsiderate bastard.’
Norton kept reading but found his eyes following Warren around the kitchen as he fossicked around, making himself a cup of coffee.
‘So, how was it last night, Bogdan? Have a nice time in the Devlin incurable diseases ward?’
‘Yeah,’ replied Norton. ‘It was great. Just like the night before. Seven hours in a Bombay toilet block surrounded by cunts. I can’t wait to get back.’
‘I don’t know why you just don’t tell him to stick it in his arse. You’re mad.’
‘Because that’s not how I operate Warren. I said I’d help him three nights and I’m going to. Quigley ain’t that bad a bloke.’
‘Quigley not a bad bloke!! You’re kidding. He’s a cunt. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women and he’s killed more people than road accidents with his cooking.’ Warren poured a cup of coffee and peered suspiciously at Norton over the rim. ‘Something doesn’t quite gel here. I know you too well, Les. I reckon you’re up to something.’
‘Up to something?’ Norton glared at Warren. ‘What in the fuck could I be up to working in a shitpot restaurant? All I’m doing is trying to earn a quid to keep this roof over our heads. And you treat me like a criminal. Jesus, you’re good.’
‘Yeah, I dunno. You couldn’t possibly need the money that bad. Something’s definitely going on.’
‘Ohh, go and get fucked. Anyway, leave me alone, Woz. I’m trying to read the papers.’
Warren slipped the Sydney Morning Herald across the table as Les pulled the Positions Vacant section out and began going through it. He decided it might be an idea to change the subject before he gave himself away.
‘So what did you do last night, Tom Cruise? You don’t look too bad for a Saturday morning. Generally you look like you’ve been shot out of a cannon.’
‘Not much. Had a few drinks back at the office after work. Went for a bit of dinner at a German place near Taylor Square. Then cruised round a couple of bars. I took it easy on the piss. I’m saving myself for a big one tonight.’
‘You still taking that bag out, are you?’
‘Melissa? Yes. And she’s not a bag. She’s quite a good sort.’
‘The run you’ve been having lately ratboy, anything’d be a good sort to you now.’
‘Hardy-ha-ha-fuckin’-ha!’
Les and his flatmate exchanged a few more pleasantries as they breakfasted and read the papers. After a while Warren made a fresh cup of coffee and walked out into the backyard.
‘Hey, it’s not a bad day outside,’ he said, when he came back in. ‘I’m going to go up to the Paddington Bazaar. Why don’t you come up?’
Yeah, that would be all I need, tho
ught Les. Go walking round the Paddington Bazaar and bump into Sandra. Hello, Les. Looking forward to the party tonight? Haven’t seen you cleaning up round the flats lately.
‘No, I promised Billy I’d have a run with him later,’ he lied. ‘Why don’t you come and have a run with us? Then we’ll do a few rounds down the surf club.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Warren. ‘That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I’d have no trouble keeping up with you and your punch-drunk mate.’ He sipped his coffee and gazed back out into the yard. ‘No, it’s too nice a day. I’ll go to the bazaar. But I’ll make it next week for sure.’
‘I’ll tell Billy when I see him. Hell be estatic. Warren Edwards, the human dynamo. Couldn’t pull a wet tampon out of a sloppy drop kick.’
Around eleven Warren got changed and headed off to Paddington, leaving Les alone in the house wondering what to do with himself. Sitting around on his own, Norton soon found that, despite the banter and wisecracking with Warren earlier, he was now starting to get a bit edgy. He told himself nothing could go wrong; he’d covered every conceivable angle and he had two professionals on the job. But somehow he just couldn’t control the feeling in the pit of his stomach. Christ, I’m blowing up a block of flats in front of God knows how many people dancing and having a party. Shit, if you took something like that for granted, there’d have to be something wrong with you. He made some more coffee and found himself pacing around the house. At midday his curiosity got the better of him. He strolled down to the TAB at Sixways and put some bets on, then drove over to Blue Seas Apartments.
Aquila Street wasn’t quite what what you would call a hive of activity, but there were a number of people roaming about getting things together. Les parked just down from the garage opposite and sat in the car for a while sussing things out while he figured out whether he should show his face or not. The thing that did surprise Norton was a small fork-lift truck stacking pallets up in the middle of the street from a stack almost in front of the old block of flats. So, that’s going to be your stage, is it? mused Les. Clever little devils, aren’t you? Wonder how you managed to organise that? But then knowing you loveable, little lot, you’d just flash your ample pussies around and I imagine you’d be able to score just about anything. Sandra’s utility wasn’t there; she was obviously at the Paddington Bazaar. But the hippies’ old kombi was there, and so was the purple wagon with Heathen Harlots on the side. Norton had just spotted it when who should come from inside, helping two of the hippies with a speaker, but Syd, the group’s roadie and minder. He still had his neck in a brace and he was moving a little gingerly, but he was certainly up and about.
Franulka appeared from somewhere in an old pair of jeans and a sloppy grey sweatshirt. There was no missing her; even in that daggy gear she still looked disgustingly homy. She said something to Syd then went over to the bloke driving the fork-lift, pointed and said something to him also. It wasn’t hard to see who was organising the show. The other girls in the band appeared with more people coming and going from the flats opposite — everybody seemed to be pitching in and doing their bit. Gwen was at the rear painting something on a big sheet of canvas or tarpaulin. Well, girls, smiled Norton, I’ve got to give it to you. You’ve sure got your shit together for this one. He sat there watching them for a few minutes more still wondering whether to put his head in or not. No, I don’t think I’ll bother. What’s that old saying? Out of sight, out of mind. Besides, if I do go over, they’ll only find me something to do. And I don’t particularly feel like lumping speakers and other junk around — it’s too nice a day. And I don’t feel like talking to Syd all that much either. No, I think they can get on quite admirably without me. He watched the proceedings for a minute or two more then drove home.
Back in his house Les didn’t know what he wanted to do. It was too nice a day to be inside, but he didn’t feel like going to the beach and being around people. Yet he didn’t feel like his own company either. He didn’t want silence, but he didn’t want the TV or the radio on either. He put the kettle on to make a cup of coffee. While it was heating, another old saying went through his mind. You make your bed, you have to lay in it. Yes. Let’s just hope I don’t have to wear the bloody thing as well. Before the kettle boiled he abruptly switched it off.
‘Ahh fuck this!’ he cursed out loud.
He walked back down to Six-Ways and put some more bets on, then came home, got into a pair of shorts and his Nikes and went for a run in Centennial Park.
While Les was doing his best to enjoy his run the work at Aquila Street continued. The stage made of pallets began to take shape, ending up about six by three metres, and about two metres off the ground. They’d managed to scrounge up a roll of grey Axminister which, when it was laid over the top, almost looked as if it was tailor-made for the job. The night was certainly shaping up to be a success.
While all this movement was going on, nobody seemed to notice two beefy, dark-haired men carrying small overnight bags and wearing blue overalls with Otto Bins stencilled across the back. One was carrying a small aluminium stepladder he’d taken from the boot of a blue Mercedes which they had parked several hundred metres away. The two men had a quick but thorough look around, then moved inside the old block of flats; once inside the foyer, both men appeared to know exactly what they were doing. Moving straight up to the roof, they took what could almost pass for large tubes of toothpaste from their overnight bags and began squirting lines of what could also pass for Stripe toothpaste all over the place except that instead of being red and white, these lines, around four inches long, were black and grey. They squeezed plenty of the resinous smelling ‘toothpaste’ on to the tarred roof, methodically working their way down the stairs and around the fuse box to the laundry. Using the small stepladder they squeezed more lines of ‘toothpaste’ up onto the ceiling. As one tube would run out, they would put the empty into an overnight bag and get out another one.
Once inside the laundry, the swarthier of the two men produced two small packages about the same size as an oblong shaped tub of margarine. He removed the greaseproof paper and kneaded the light, green puttylike substance until it was a little flatter, then jammed it behind one of the meter boxes above the coppers in the laundry. Satisfied that it was secure, he worked two small devices consisting of a hearing aid battery and what looked like a transistor into the mixture. Happy with the first one, he jammed the other into a niche in the wall at the other end of the laundry and worked another device into that also. While he was doing this, the other man took two small squares of blue, puttylike substance from his ovemight-bag. He jammed one above the laundry window where it faced the street and worked one of the electrical devices into it, then did exactly the same behind the fuse box at the foot of the stairs.
Satisfied everything was in order the two men picked up the stepladder and their overnight bags and walked slowly, even casually back to their car, leaving the people working outside the old block of flats to carry on absolutely none the wiser.
Back in Cox Avenue Bondi Norton had showered after his run and grilled himself a steak plus salad and vegetables. No matter what his innermost feelings were, nerves, anxiety, whatever, he still hadn’t lost his appetite and he knew there was no way he’d eat anything in that restaurant. He knocked that over pretty smartly, had a mug of coffee then settled down to watch the Wide World of Sport and listen to the races. It was a beautiful day outside and, around four-thirty, Norton besides his nervousness, was almost cursing his good luck. His straight out bets and his doubles had done no good, but an All Up Parlay in Brisbane had won him just over six hundred dollars. Work that out, he thought, shaking his head. I’m another six hundred in front, there’s nearly seventy grand in my wardrobe and I’m going to work for seven hours in a stinken hot, cockroach-infested kitchen where I have to put up with two of the greatest drop kicks I’ve ever met in my life. Norton shook his head again. I think George Brennan was right when he said my brains were in my arse. Before Les knew it, it was getting on for
five. He changed into his daggiest jeans and an old blue T-shirt, tossed a white sweatband into his overnight bag and headed for the restaurant.
Quigley wasn’t in the kitchen when Norton arrived at work. The back door was open, there was an open bottle of beer on the table and the demi-glace was bubbling away on the stove, but no Quigley. The back door was open, Les let himself in, stowed his bag, had a quick look in the dining room and waited. Oh well. A few minutes later Quigley appeared from the direction of the toilets, blowing his nose, his eyes red and runny and spinning around in his head like two Ferris wheels. He saw Norton, blinked and tried to act cool.
‘Hello, Les,’ he said, then fumbled around lighting a cigarette and taking a mouthful of beer.
‘G’day, Bob,’ answered Les, putting on his sweatband. One look at Quigley’s sallow face and watery red eyes told him he’d been throwing more up his nose in the toilets than Vicks Sinex. At least he’d changed his T-shirt. ‘So, what do you want me to do? Chop up some vegetables?’
‘Yeah. And a few herbs. But don’t do a real lot. There’s not that many bookings.’
That’s understandable, mused Norton. But I imagine there’ll be a few bookings at the back door. Well then, I wonder what filthy, low job you’ve got lined up for me tonight?
It took Norton twenty minutes to find out what it was because that’s how long it took him to finish the vegetables. Quigley got him to clean out the three deep-freezers. He switched them off then told Les what to do. First he had to get rid of what was in them. As usual it was more accumulated filth and garbage. There were plastic bags of different fish, mainly niggers and what had to be shark, plus the half-rotten bream Les had cleaned the night before. There were about twenty blue swimmer crabs that had now turned into brown swimmer crabs tinged with green. Pieces of meat, chickens, ducks, things that were entirely unidentifiable. A solitary lobster, cartons of ice cream, pieces of crab shell, prawn heads, matches and just rubbish in general. It was filthy and neglected just like the stove had been, but instead of being covered in rotten grease it was frozen solid.
Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas Page 21