Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas

by Robert G. Barrett

  Knowing he was just getting used up, and on top of his already edginess, Norton’s temper began to rise. He pulled out a frozen beef fillet and was seriously thinking of letting Quigley have it right between the eyes, but he somehow managed to cool down. Just a few hours more Les, that’s all now and it will all be over. Once he had all the food out Les then had to smash the accumulated ice away with a meat cleaver before he could start on the freezers with a bucket of hot, soapy water. How long since they’d been cleaned was anybody’s guess — the ice, now turned a dirty grey, was over a foot thick in parts. Norton wouldn’t have been surprised if there was a mastodon or a Neanderthal man still clutching a spear frozen in there. Cursing inwardly, Norton hacked away at the ice. His hands, even with rubber gloves on, were stinging and numb from the cold. While Norton was working, Quigley turned the radio on and pottered around at the table drinking piss and smoking cigarettes as Gene Pitney’s ‘Only Love Can Break A Heart’ seeped out of the speakers like a weeping cut.

  Norton was still working on the freezers when waitress number one arrived in her usual jangling of car keys, booze and an encompassing cloud of cigarette smoke. Tonight she was wearing a black mini and her legs looked like two white tomato stakes that could have done with a shave. As usual Norton could have been invisible bent over the freezers. It was. ‘Hello Robert.’ A few more words then she disappeared into the dining room.

  After much scrubbing, smashing and silent cursing Les got the third freezer finished as waitress number two arrived, also wearing a black mini. She too ignored Les, said ‘Hello Robert’, lit a cigarette, threw a triple Scotch down her throat and joined Olive Oyle in the dining room. Apart from saying hello when he got to work, Norton had scarcely uttered a dozen words all night. His mind was working overtime however, and what was going through it didn’t give Les a great deal to smile about. His next few words didn’t bring him any joy either.

  ‘Okay, Bob,’ he said through gritted teeth, as he wiped his hands on a tea towel. ‘What do you want me to do now?’

  ‘You see all those plates in the corner cupboard?’

  Quigley got Les to get every plate out of the ‘dope’ cupboard near the sink and scrub the bottoms of them from where they were blackened from Quigley putting them straight on the stove to heat up. Norton spent another pleasant hour or so bent over the sink with a pot scourer and a can of Ajax, scrubbing charred soot from the bottoms of about a hundred plates and soup bowls. The only thing that kept him sane was the pleasant thought of coming back the following week and breaking both Quigley’s and his mate Layton’s jaws. By the time he finished scouring the plates, a few customers began to trickle in and it was back to the normal grind of washing dishes and scrubbing pots. The only difference tonight was watching the clock tick round and wondering how things were going up at Blue Seas Apartments. But he need not have worried. While Les was having a complete bummer at the Devlin, things were going swimmingly up in Aquila Street.

  It was almost nine and there was a crowd of about a hundred, which was increasing steadily. All the speakers and instruments were up on stage and the sign Gwen had painted in green and gold saying The Prince Charles Birthday Bash was hung up as a backdrop. All the neighbours were cool and they’d been in touch with the cops who weren’t all that interested. There were three heavy metal bands playing at Selina’s at Coogee, so they knew they’d have plenty on their plate there, rather than worry about a street party in what was little more than an overwide alley about a hundred metres long.

  Everybody from the flats across the road was there with their eskys and friends; friends of the band were there, so was Burt, Rosie, and Sandra and all the hippies were helping the girls in the band. It was carnival atmosphere on an absolutely delightful night with the mob from the pub across the road now starting to show a little curiosity.

  As the girls got up on stage all the men’s ‘curiosity’ turned to pure lust. The girls were wearing much the same gear they had on when Les saw them out the front the morning they got back from Canberra. Alastrina’s tits were just about hanging out of her string top. Isla looked better than ever in her crutch-tight jeans full of razor slashes that had been doubled up, round the backside. Riona’s behind looked sensational and her crumpet was just about bulging right out of her black leggings and through her cut off jeans. Even Gwendoline, fussing around at the mixer as she got a cassette together to record the night’s performance, looked extra homy in her school uniform complete with a straw hat. But it was Franulka who stole the show. She looked almost unbelievable in her Elvira gown with the cut-away top and the huge split up the front, where if you were down the front of the crowd you could get a glimpse of a sensational pair of purple knickers trimmed with pink. Larry Dapto was onto it like he had Clark Kent’s X-ray vision and told his two-man camera crew that at one stage of the night they were to zero in on Franulka, even to the extent of sticking the camera lens right up her dress.

  Gwen had a bit of Top Forty music playing softly through the speakers as the girls began moving around on stage and getting behind their instruments. At a nod from Franulka she turned it off, then the sexy lead singer adjusted the mike and gave it a couple of taps ‘toe toe’ with her finger.

  ‘Hello, there,’ she breathed huskily into the microphone, throwing in a lascivious grin for all the men including poor Syd in his neck brace. ‘We’re The Heathen Harlots and we’d like to welcome you to the Prince Charles Birthday Bash. We hope you have a good time. This first song’s a bit laid back. But we just want to tune our instruments.’

  Franulka tapped her foot a couple of times, and smoother than Yellow Box honey, the girls slipped easily into the Rolling Stones’ ‘Terrifying’.

  They were spot on. Evocative and crystal clear at the same time with just the right acoustics echoing off the surrounding flats. A hush went through the crowd as the girls moved lazily around on stage, each taking a turn at the lyrics while they checked their instruments, got their ‘sea legs’ and the nod from Gwen on the mixer. This one song drifting across the street was enough for the drinkers in the hotel; it emptied out in about two minutes. By the time the girls finished the first song the crowd had almost doubled and was increasing steadily.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Franulka, as the last chord echoed off the surrounding buildings and blended in with the muted applause from the crowd. She ran her eyes over the crowd and saw Dapto and his camera crew filming steadily. The other girls saw him too and Franulka gave them a wink and a nod. ‘Like I said,’ she continued, ‘we’re The Heathen Harlots, doing our bit for Charlie boy on his birthday. And we think we’ve now got our instruments tuned.’ Franulka caught the eye of a male punter ogling her. ‘Is your instrument tuned, big boy?’ The punter, grinned, yelled and waved his can of beer. ‘Good. Okay, that last song was nice. But let’s... let’s have a bit of rock V roll.’

  There was silence for a moment, then Franulka nodded to the other girls and literally screamed into the mike. ‘My man is red hot.’

  The girls yelled back. ‘Your man ain’t diddly squat.’

  ‘Well, I got a guy, he’s six feet four. Sleeps in the kitchen with his head in the hall. My man is red hot.’

  ‘Your man ain’t diddly squat.’

  ‘He ain’t got money, but boy he’s really got a lot.’

  The Heathen Harlots belted into a scorching version of Robert Gordon’s ‘Red Hot’. And when Franulka ran her tongue around the mike and sang, ‘He ain’t got money, but boy he’s really got a lot’, nobody in the audience needed to be told twice what she was referring to.

  They attacked that song, literally tearing it to shreds as they bounced all over the stage. The crowd went wild. In seconds there wasn’t a foot not tapping, a head not shaking or a backside not wiggling. Cars pulled up and windows opened, as Aquila Street turned into a mass of singing, dancing people.

  His eyes bulging out like two oranges, Dapto turned to his camera crew. ‘Not fucking good enough,’ was all he managed to say.

>   After that the girls slipped straight into Steve Hoy’s ‘Flick Through The Pages’ before the applause and cheering had a chance to die down, with Isla somehow belting out an even bigger backbeat than the original. They moved, they swished across the stage shaking their pert backsides and wiggling their tits at the audience. Franulka stepped to the front, threw her guitar to one side and did a ripping high kick. There was an audible gasp from the men in the crowd as those purple and pink knickers flashed in the light and they got a glimpse of the most perfectly sensational ted imaginable. There was only one word for it and the way Franulka threw it up: magnificent. It was that good, several men went down on their knees in homage and if there had been any Druids in the crowd they would have slaughtered a goat to it. From then on it was just gut-wrenching, get down, sock-it-to-me-baby-and-roll-me-over-and-give-it-to-me-one-more-time-big-daddy rock ’n’ roll. Not only were there four glamours on stage — the Heathen Harlots knew how to play music. And seeing Dapto filming they were convinced he was some film producer from the States, so they were giving it heaps and making every post a winner.

  They did Romeo Void’s ‘In The Dark’ and ‘Never Say Never’, Hunters And Collectors’‘Looking For Love’, Eddie Cochran’s ‘Skinny Jim’, John Hiatt’s ‘Tennessee Plates’, James Reyne’s ‘Harvest Moon’, and Skyhooks’ ‘You Just Like Me ’Cause I’m Good in Bed’. They did a couple of their own but mainly covers. And every one raunchy enough to make a boy scout push an old lady in front of a train and steal her purse.

  The crowd had seen nothing like it and neither had Dapto. ‘Just keep rolling,’ he yelled at his camera crew. ‘I’m going back to the car to get more film!’ He forced his way through the crowd that had now filled Aquila Street and were dancing like dervishes. Like the song said, it was the party to end all parties. Turn of the century.

  While the crowd in Aquila Street was singing, dancing and having the time of their lives, the man responsible and paying for it wasn’t having a great deal of fun at all. His cup of happiness far from running over was more like a very shallow saucer full of misery. He was almost choking from the heat and cigarette fumes, his hands were still stinging from cleaning out the freezers and he was sick of pretending to not notice the fifteen or so punters that had come to the back door for their deals of whatever. The uneasiness in the pit of Norton’s stomach was increasing by the half-hour. He knew the party would be in full swing by now, and he knew that soon it would be ending very abruptly, and he was beginning to think it might be better if he was up there to keep an eye on things. But instead, he was stuck in this pit of a restaurant. The only slight variation to the night so far was that the cat and the dog had come back — they hadn’t been around the previous night and Les was sure they must have died from food poisoning.

  Quigley fed them on the floor as usual. The dog had left earlier but the cat kept hanging around, getting under Norton’s feet as he tried to work and rubbing itself against his leg in an effort to cadge more food. Norton, his temper a little on the short side tonight, finally kicked its red arse out the door. The cat then sat at the door peering at Les through the hole in the flyscreen like he was a rapist and a mass murderer. The cat finally psyched Norton out and, full of remorse, he got some meat scraps and a few chicken bones and put them just outside the door. Les toiled on, managing to keep switched off and conceal the turmoil inside him. He was so worried about the old block of flats that he almost forgot about Layton until he bowled in about twenty past ten.

  Tonight Quigley’s mate was decked out in his Saturday night, all black, kill ’em gear; black shirt, black trousers, black belt, red socks and scuffed, unpolished brown shoes. It wasn’t hard to tell where the profits from their dealing was going because, like his mate Quigley, Layton’s eyes were red and spinning around in his head like two bubbles in a piss pot. As usual he ignored Les, said hello to Quigley then did a Joe Cool in front of the two pissed waitresses for a while before settling down next to the owner. About five minutes later Les got told to take the garbage down the back; when he got back he assumed the resupplying had taken place so he continued working around the sink. The two waitresses were in the corner throwing more booze down their throats. Quigley was involved in something he was cooking and couldn’t talk so Layton must have thought this was as good a time as any to start on Norton the boofhead, Queensland kitchen hand.

  ‘You’re still here, eh Les,’ he cackled, adding his annoying laugh.

  Norton clenched his teeth and stared down into the sink, muttering a barely audible ‘mmhh’. He was telling himself to be cool, but somehow Les could feel Layton’s opening remark had caused the dam holding back his emotions to start to crumble.

  ‘I thought for sure you’d be up the Cross with all your poofter mates tonight,’ said Layton.

  Norton took in a couple of deep breaths and slowly began to count back. 10... 9... 8... 1... The good karma goes in. The bad karma goes out.

  ‘But I suppose you’ll go straight up after work... then they’ll all be straight up you.’ Layton almost went into a high-pitched giggling fit as if this last remark was hilarious.

  Norton shook his hands over the sink then walked across to the back shelf and dried them on a tea towel. As he did, one of the waitresses knocked an eggbeater onto the floor. She had her hands full and Les automatically bent down to pick it up. He’d just bent over when he felt something being jammed in his backside. Almost in disbelief Les stood up and slowly turned around. Layton was standing there, holding a carrot and laughing.

  ‘How did that feel, Les?’ he roared. ‘Like a big cock going right up your arse?’

  That was enough for Norton; something in the pit of his stomach went off like a grenade. He threw the eggbeater onto the table and snatched the carrot out of Layton’s hand.

  ‘No,’ he hissed venomously. ‘More like a big one going right down your fuckin’ throat.’

  Les grabbed Layton by the collar of his shirt with his left hand and jammed the carrot into his wide open mouth, and kept jamming till it was almost halfway down Layton’s throat. Layton’s eyes bulged as he spluttered and choked. Quigley stopped what he was doing; the two waitresses gave a little gasp.

  ‘You greasy, fuckin’ piece of shit,’ snarled the enraged Norton. He ground the carrot further into Layton’s mouth then spun him around and kicked him straight up the arse in the direction of the back door. It wasn’t a karate kick, it wasn’t a kung fu kick, nor was it a tae-kwon-do kick either. It was just a good old-fashioned kick right up the arse like your father used to do, but with a lot more weight behind it. Layton zoomed across the floor, and straight out the door, wrenching the flyscreen completely off its hinges, before he crashed into the wall behind in a mess of buckled and broken wire mesh and a screeching, startled red cat.

  The girls screamed and Quigley dropped what he was doing as Norton, his fists clenched with rage, strode to the back door ready to decapitate Layton. He tore the flyscreen off Layton, flung it to one side, grabbed him by the shirt and pulled back a massive right fist.

  The big-mouthed, tough-guy dope dealer threw his hands over his head and screamed out to Quigley, ‘Bob! Quick, ring the cops.’

  Norton blinked at Layton and hesitated for a moment. Then he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Leave him alone, Les, or 111 call the police.’

  Norton blinked again and turned around. Quigley was standing in the doorway, the two startled waitresses behind him.

  ‘You’ll whaf!’ said Les, almost unable to believe what he was hearing.

  ‘You heard. I’ll ring the cops and have you up for assault. The girls saw what happened.’ Quigley’s voice was shaking.

  Despite his anger Norton suddenly let go of Layton and laughed. He stood up and looked at Quigley. ‘Are you fair dinkum?’

  ‘My oath I am,’ answered Quigley.

  Norton walked across to Quigley and shoved him back inside the restaurant straight through the two waitresses. ‘You’re gonna call the cops are you
? All right, shithead. Do that. The phone’s over in the comer. And while they’re here we’ll show them this.’

  Norton strode past Quigley over to the dope cupboard. He didn’t just open it — he ripped one of the doors off its hinges and flung it across the kitchen. The replenished dope deals were sitting in their plastic container. Norton tore the lid off and there had to be around thirty there, bags and foils, at roughly $100 each. He strode back over to the ashen-faced Quigley and shoved the container in his face.

  ‘And what do you call this... Robert? Your thirty different herbs and spices?’ Norton laughed contemptuously. ‘You’ll call the police? You fuckin’ dope-dealing cunt. I ought to break your fuckin’ neck.’ Quigley seemed to pale even more at the look on Norton’s face. Then Norton suddenly smiled diabolically. ‘But seeing they’re only spices, why don’t we spice things up around here? What have we got there? About thirty?’ Norton walked over to the stove and tipped the lot into the demi-glace bubbling away on its burner then grabbed a wooden spoon and gave it a good stir.

  Quigley gasped in horror as around $3000 worth of deals disappeared amongst the slop and whatever else that was boiling away in the pot.

  ‘Now,’ said Norton, turning to the two shocked waitresses, the horrible smile still on his face. ‘Tell them out in the dining room that the chefs special is coming up.’

  The two girls didn’t move and stood there with their mouths open.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it myself.’

  Using a table cloth, Norton picked up the boiling pot of demi-glace by the handles, walked over to the swing door, kicked it open and flung the pot, the demi-glace the lot out into the dining room. There wouldn’t have been half a dozen people at either end of the restaurant. They could hardly believe their eyes as this great pot of steaming swill came sailing across the room and splattered up against the wall.