‘Yeah. I can sort things out on the door for you. No problems.’
‘No. I got a couple of blokes for that. I want you to do the music.’
‘Music?’ Les was surprised. ‘What? Like a DJ?’
‘Sort of. I’ll explain it to you when I see you.’
‘Righto,’ shrugged Les.
‘You ever been to Nimbin?’
‘No,’ replied Les.
‘Well, when you get here, you may as well book into the pub. Then ring me and let me know everything’s sweet.’
‘Okay.’
‘The bar’s called the Double L Ranch. You can’t miss it. It’s at the end of the main drag, down past the war memorial. I’m opening Friday night at eight. And closing at twelve. The same Saturday. Closed Sunday. I’ll give you five hundred a night in the hand. Okay?’
‘Sounds good to me, Lonnie,’ said Les.
‘Okay. Well, I’ll see you in Nimbin, Les.’
‘See you then, Lonnie.’ Les hung up the phone and looked at Eddie.
‘Everything sweet?’ asked Eddie.
‘He wants me to do the music,’ replied Les.
‘Terrific,’ said Eddie, zipping up his overnight bag. ‘You like music. It’ll be right up your alley.’ ‘Yeah,’ Les nodded absently.
Eddie started off down the hallway. Les followed him and opened the door.
‘All right. Ring me when you get a chance,’ said Eddie. ‘And I’ll see you in beautiful downtown Nimbin.’
‘Righto, mate. See you then.’
Eddie walked down to his car and drove off slowly into the night. Les closed the door then walked back into the loungeroom and sat down in front of the silent TV.
Well, that’s a trifle odd, thought Les. One would have imagined one would be working on the door, punching people in the face and kicking them in the head when they’re down. Instead, this Lonnie bloke wants me to do the music. Les dropped his head into his hands and groaned. Which means I’ll be standing in front of a steaming turntable playing fuckin house music all night. Great. I get rid of one horrible racket and walk straight into another. Oh well. It’s only for two nights. And between the money and Eddie doing me a huge favour, I can’t whinge.
Les cocked an ear towards the backyard and the beautiful silence was blissfully deafening. Suddenly Norton was overcome by a strange mixture of blessed relief and total exhaustion. Fuckin hell, he yawned to himself. This is too good to be true. I’m hitting the sack. Les rinsed Fabio’s blood from the sink, turned off the TV and the lights and shuffled down to his darkened bedroom.
The bed felt extraordinarily comfortable and the clean fresh sheets and pillowcases were a delight. The silence outside his window was a revelation. Les gave a sigh of happiness, smiled and scrunched his head into the pillows. Next thing his eyes rolled back in his head and in seconds the big redheaded Queenslander was snoring like a baby.
It was well past nine when Norton woke up the next morning and after a long night of undisturbed sleep, Les felt like a new man. He got out of bed, stretched, smiled and breezed down the hallway to the bathroom. A check of his face while he cleaned his teeth told Les the winning sparkle had returned to his beautiful brown eyes and the nasty black circles had already started to clear up.
‘Hello, you magnificent, gorgeous hunk of Australian manhood,’ he smiled, blowing himself a kiss in the mirror. ‘And how are you today? What’s that? You feel great. Goodness! I wonder why?’ Les filled a glass with water and toasted the toilet bowl. ‘To absent friends,’ he said, then drained the glass.
It was a clear crisp day outside and although he was off to a late start, Norton knew there was no way in the world Tony Nathan would be ready and waiting out the front when he drove round. So, after slipping into a pair of blue cargoes, his AND1 trainers and a blue T-shirt with coloured fish on it that he’d bought in Cairns, Les strolled down to Hall Street to get the paper, stopping on the way home for a flat white at the corner café.
Back at Chez Norton, Les cooked enough scrambled eggs and bacon to end world hunger, then lingered over the news again with his instant coffee. Full as a tick, he folded his newspaper, cleaned up, then put his bags in the car; Warren would be home that evening, so there was no need to tell the neighbours he was going away. Satisfied everything was in order for the trip north, Les locked the front door, got into his car and drove round to Tony’s flat at Tamarama, pulling up along the driveway next door. Les turned off the motor, bipped the horn and waited.
After enough time to build both the Suez Canal and the Great Pyramid of Cheops, Tony appeared out the front wearing a pair of grey shorts and a black polo shirt. In one hand was a black briefcase, a blue overnight bag hung from his shoulder, and he was eating a banana. Finishing the banana he ambled nonchalantly across to Norton’s Berlina.
‘Toss your gear on the back seat,’ said Les, reaching behind him and opening the rear door.
Tony did that then strolled around and got in the front seat with his briefcase. He placed it on his knees, clicked the seat belt then turned to Les. ‘So, what’s doing, Shitbags?’ he smiled from beneath a mop of thick black hair.
‘Not much, Tony,’ replied Les. ‘What’s doing with you?’
‘Work. Nothing but fuckin work,’ answered Tony. ‘And that’s about fuckin it. You looking forward to the wedding?’
‘Yeah. It should be good,’ said Les, starting the car. He nodded to the briefcase as they drove off up the hill. ‘What have you got there. The NATO battle plans?’
‘No. It’s a laptop fuckin computer. The prick of a thing. Fair dinkum. They’re enough to drive you round the fuckin bend.’
‘So what did you bring it for?’ asked Les.
‘I’ve got to match up all these photos and other assorted fuckin shit,’ replied Tony. ‘So I thought I’d try and get it done while we’re driving.’ He flipped the laptop open and turned it on.
‘Fair enough,’ said Les. ‘I’ll leave the stereo off.’
‘No. Don’t worry about it,’ said Tony. ‘I can still work the dopey fuckin thing out.’ Tony glared at the screen as he scrolled up and down. ‘Some fuckin how.’
‘Okay. I might just listen to the news.’
Les switched the radio on down low and while Tony clicked, clattered and abused his laptop, surfed the airwaves. After listening to the usual shock jocks and schlock jocks on AM, Les switched to FM. The first song he got was The Eagles’ ‘Hotel California’ for the two hundred thousandth time on one station, followed by Johnny Farnham wailing ‘Help’ on another, followed by some unintelligible hip-hop junk on another. This was topped off on another station by an old Englebert Humperdinck song that refused to die, so Les switched the radio off and concentrated on the drive.
By the time they got onto the F3 and crossed the Hawkesbury River, Les found he was having more fun thinking about the funny side of life and watching Tony swear and threaten to murder his laptop than he would listening to old pop songs. Time and the kilometres flew by. Les had drunk a bottle of water and was still chuckling quietly to himself when Tony switched off his computer and slammed it shut.
‘That’s it. Fuck it,’ he cursed. ‘Useless cunt of a thing. I’d like to throw it out the fuckin window.’
‘You get everything done?’ asked Les.
Tony shook his head. ‘No. I still got plenty to go. Fuckin enter. Delete. Tools. Fuckin format. Drives me fuckin mad.’ Tony looked out the window at the plains and trees on either side of the road. ‘Shit! Where the fuck are we?’
‘The other side of Hexham. We’re heading for Bulahdelah.’
‘Shit! That went quick.’
‘Yeah. You know what they say, Steelo. Time flies when you’re having fun.’
Tony reached behind him and got a bottle of water from his bag. He took a drink then smiled at Norton. ‘So, you’re looking forward to the wedding are you, Les?’
‘Yeah. I like Deadline and his girl.’
‘There could be a bit of fun and games at the
reception,’ chuckled Tony.
‘How do you mean?’ asked Les.
‘You know anything about Deadline and Saretta’s background?’
‘Background? No. What’s there to know?’
‘Well,’ said Tony, ‘Deadline’s family are Serbian. And Ninety-Nine’s are Bosnian. Evidently there’s a blood feud between the two families that goes back five hundred years.’
‘Yeah?’ Les was surprised. ‘So how come they got together and produced bonnie babies?’
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Tony. ‘Deadline originally comes from Tuncurry. Saretta comes from Bondi. They met at an Off Shore party at the Bronte Inn. After that it was love all the way. Shit happens.’
‘So you’re not about to tell me they’re going to pull out guns, knives and dynamite at the reception, are you, Steelo?’ said Les.
‘I doubt it,’ replied Tony. ‘But if they ramp up on too much plum brandy, you never know what might happen.’
‘Shit! Well, if the place goes off, I’ll be on the toe very smartly, Tony, I can promise you that,’ said Les.
Tony rubbed his hands together. ‘You and I might be in for a bit of fun and games up there too, Les.’
‘Oh?’
‘The boys from Off Shore are having dinner at the Lakes tonight.’
‘The Lakes?’ said Les.
‘Yeah. The Lakes Sailing Club,’ replied Tony. ‘It’s like the local RSL. And I know a little chick there that works in the bistro.’
‘You do?’
‘Yeah, Ruby. The Redhead. I used to take her out in Sydney. Fair dinkum. She’s got long red hair down to her knees and legs up to her armpits.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Les. ‘So where do I come into it?’
‘She’s got a girlfriend works there, Janet. Janet the Gannet from the Forbidden Planet. We’ve a chance of getting them back to the flat for a drink tonight.’
‘So you put in a bit of groundwork before you left, Steelo.’
‘Fuckin oath,’ enthused Tony. ‘I’m still sweet with Ruby. And I reckon even a big ugly gorilla like you would have to be a chance with Janet.’
‘Thanks, Steelo,’ grunted Les. ‘You’re too fuckin kind.’
They continued on, crossing the Karuah River when Tony wrinkled his nose and stared at Norton.
‘Jesus fuckin Christ, Les,’ he said. ‘What have you been eating? Curried rat?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Les.
‘You just farted, you cunt,’ said Tony, winding down his window.
Les shook his head. ‘It’s not me. It’s the bloke that used to own the car.’
‘What?’
Les explained how the car belonged to a drug dealer who got shot in the car and some of his brains got spattered around the back. With the help of a mechanic they got the smell out. But for some reason it had started seeping back now and again.
‘Even though the old Berlina still goes all right,’ said Les, ‘I got to get another car. I’m spewing.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ said Steelo, poking his face out the window.
They continued on through a warren of roadworks till they came to a sign saying BULAHDELAH. POPULATION 1161. They passed the turn-off to the small township and further on reached the Lakes Way. Route 6. Seal Rocks. Smiths Lake. Pacific Palms.
Tony pointed to the sign. ‘There it is, Les.’
‘Yep,’ nodded Les. ‘Time to hang a mean right.’
Les turned off the F3 and past another sign saying TUNCURRY, FORSTER, the road narrowed and began to climb and curve before dipping down again with a steep drop away on the left. They passed a clutter of houses and a store near a sign saying BOOLAMBAYTE then there was a glimpse of lake and they were in the thick of Myall Lakes National Park. Past Bungwahl the lake opened up on the right and further on it almost came up to the road before a row of shops and houses went past on the left near the State Emergency Services building and a sign that read WELCOME TO PACIFIC PALMS. The road rose then dipped and before long Tony pointed to another sign and a turn-off on the right that read BLUEYS BEACH, BOOMERANG BEACH.
‘There it is, Les. Blueys Beach.’
Les touched the brakes. ‘Don’t worry, Steelo. I’m on the case.’
Les hung a right and they followed a narrow road with steep hills and houses on the right and trees and plains on the left. A kilometre further on the left, they came to the little shopping village and parking area of Blueys Beach, separated from the road and the houses opposite by a row of palm trees. Les slowed down and swung the car into the parking area.
‘We got to find Blueys Real Estate,’ said Tony, ‘and pick up the key.’
‘There it is. Next to the surf shop. There’s a parking spot in front of that phone box.’
‘Righto. I’ll sort things out. I shouldn’t be too long.’
‘No. Of course not,’ said Les.
Les nosed the Berlina up against the phone box and cut the engine. Tony got out and walked into the real estate office while Les strolled off towards the left to check out the small but well-contained village.
At the end was another real estate agency next to a bakery then a surf shop and Blueys Real Estate, where Les could see Tony smiling away at a young blonde girl behind the desk. Several people were standing inside a takeaway fish and chip shop and a handful of people were drinking coffee under umbrellas outside a café called Fifty-Fifty that sat next to a pizza shop named Louie’s on Blueys. Last of the shops was a supermarket and a little further on was a large bottle shop with a parking area out the front. There was a smattering of people getting in and out of cars and several tradies’ utes were parked around the fish and chip shop. On the way back, Les stopped outside Fifty-Fifty and had a look inside. Around the tables the walls were stacked with gourmet foods, the kitchen was at the rear and behind the counter a large photo of Blueys Beach took up part of the wall. Les checked a menu on one of the tables and gave it a grudging nod of approval. Yes. I think this is where one shall breakfast tomorrow morning with the paper. And if Steelo can drag his arse out of bed, he’s more than welcome to join me. My dollar.
Back at Blueys Real Estate, Tony was still inside chatting up the girl behind the desk, who was batting her eyes and returning his smiles with interest. Les leaned his backside against the bonnet of the car and waited. Finally Tony came out holding a plastic folder and a small map.
‘Everything sweet?’ Les asked.
‘Yep. We’re in San Remo apartments.’ Tony pointed past the shops. ‘Just up the road. A minute’s walk to the beach.’
‘Beautiful,’ said Les. ‘We’ll dump our gear. Then come back and get some piss for tonight. If it’s on?’
‘Don’t worry.’ Tony wiggled his eyebrows at Les. ‘If it’s not, the little chick in the real estate just gave me her phone number.’
‘You were in there long enough. It’s a wonder she didn’t give herself lockjaw.’
‘Shut up, Les, you ugly big cunt,’ smiled Tony as they got back inside the car, ‘and get us up to the flat.’
Les started the car and stared at Tony. ‘Are you any relation to Warren Edwards?’
‘No. But your relationship with the rent is two hundred and twenty bucks. So cough up, Shitbags. Unless you want to sleep in the car.’
Les drove left out of the village then took a street to the right. San Remo flats were a large holiday resort that took up a hilly corner on the left. The entrance was just round the corner in a street surrounded by new houses built onto a headland overlooking Blueys Beach.
‘Why don’t we check out the beach first?’ suggested Les.
‘Yeah. Good idea,’ said Tony.
Les stopped the car at an open-air shower in front of a few scrubby trees surrounded by holiday homes. They got out and walked down a short flight of steps to a wooden viewing platform overlooking a beach a little longer than Coogee, but not as long as Bondi.
‘Shit! How nice is this?’ said Les.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Tony. ‘Check out
the water.’
A rugged granite headland, with houses built onto the green slopes above, ran alongside the ocean on the left and an expanse of white sand led to another headland on the right, where the granite cliffs continued on to Seal Rocks in the distance. New houses and holiday homes overlooked the ocean, finishing where lush forest sloped down to the beach. The water was turquoise blue, there was a mid tide, the breeze was a light south-wester and the only signs of life were a couple walking along the sand and a handful of surfers at the southern end of the beach.
‘Shit! I could live here,’ declared Tony.
‘Yeah. Look at that,’ said Les. ‘At Bondi, you’re competing for a bit of space. Here, you just make your own.’
Tony shook his head. ‘Come on, let’s head for the flat before I get the shits. This is too fuckin nice.’
San Remo flats were two white stucco blocks, facing each other across a long parking area and built Mexican style with arched entrances and colonnades. Behind the flats were lawns and barbecues edged by small trees running along a steep slope that separated the flats from the road. Les and Tony were on the second floor of the block closest to the entrance.
‘Viva Espana,’ winked Les.
‘Yeah. Hasta la vista, baby,’ replied Tony.
The stairs to their flat ran up alongside the building to a small verandah overlooking the parking area. They got their bags from the car and took the stairs. Tony opened the door and they stepped inside.
‘Hey, nothing wrong with this,’ said Tony.
‘Not bad at all, Steelo,’ said Les. ‘You done well.’
Their holiday apartment was a bright two-bedroom unit painted light blue and white. A blue floral bamboo lounge sat opposite a well-appointed kitchen on the right, a room with a double bed faced the lounge and a room with two single beds and a bunk faced the kitchen. Across from the lounge was a TV and across from the kitchen was the bathroom and behind the kitchen another door opened onto a sundeck overlooking the lawned area. The unit had a polished wooden floor and small colourful seascapes dotted the walls.
‘Which bedroom do you want, Steelo?’ asked Les.
‘I don’t give a fuck,’ answered Tony. ‘You may as well take the double bed. Your arse is twice as big as mine.’
High Noon in Nimbin Page 3