‘Like a log,’ replied the little artist. ‘I was a lot more tired than I thought. I feel good now though.’
‘Yeah. So do I.’ Norton turned on the jets and started singing as he happily soaped up. It hadn’t been a real bad day. Everything had worked out nicely so far with the pot. He was over $1500 in front, and now he was taking Betty out for what should be a nice dinner with promise of better things to come. Not a bad day at all. He grinned to himself as he worked a large handful of conditioner into his scrubby red hair.
‘Listen Les,’ said Reg, in the kitchen over a cup of coffee later on. ‘I was only kidding about tonight. If you want to bring Betty for a drink or whatever, that’s okay. In fact I’ll ring Diane and tell her to get some more champagne if you like.’
‘No Reg. That’s okay thanks mate. I’ll probably stop at her joint and I’ll see you in the morning.’ Norton grinned at Reg over the top of his mug of coffee. ‘I reckon it’d’ve been a different story though if you’d’ve done your twenty bucks.’ Reg smiled back, blushed slightly and kept sipping his coffee. Half an hour later, wearing a nice new collarless shirt a friend had brought him back from London, and a pair of designer jeans, Norton jumped happily into the BMW. Dragon was wringing every ounce of soul they could out of ‘Still In Love With You’, as Les headed for Sawtell and Betty’s flat.
The door was open. He knocked twice, opened the flyscreen and went inside. Betty was in the kitchen shovelling things into the blender again. As soon as she saw Les she stopped, put her arms around him and kissed him softly on the lips.
‘Hello Mr Norton,’ she smiled into his eyes. ‘How are you?’
‘Good. Couldn’t be better,’ replied Les, taking a step back. ‘Jesus! What about that dress.’
Betty was wearing a tight fitting, pink and turquoise dress, cut low in the front and low in the back. It didn’t just emphasise the fullness and firmness of her ample breasts, it made them thrust out proudly, in absolute defiance of the law of gravity. Norton felt like kicking down the nearest brick wall.
Betty ran her hands down her sides and did a quick pirouette. ‘You like it, do you?’ she said coyly.
‘Reckon. Where’d you get it?’
‘Grafton.’
‘Grafton? Shit I would’ve sworn you’d got it in Double Bay or around Paddington.’
‘No. There’s a new shop opened in Grafton called L.A. Fashions. They sell really nice clothes and they’re not that dear, either.’
L.A. Fashions. Norton nearly choked. That was where he had to go tomorrow afternoon to drop the dope off. ‘Looks great anyway,’ he said. ‘You should be locked up for wearing it.’
‘Oh don’t be silly,’ replied Betty, trying to maintain an unpretentious smile. ‘It’s just comfortable, that’s all.’
‘Yeah.’ Norton grinned and nodded towards the blender sitting on the kitchen table. ‘What’s in the daiquiris tonight? Pineapple and banana?’
‘No. Got a new one for you tonight. Carrot and apple.’
‘Carrot and apple daiquiris?!! You’re kidding.’
‘No. Try one, they’re beautiful. Get drunk and fit at the same time,’ Betty rolled her eyes. ‘What a way to go,’ she said throatily.
Oddly enough Betty was right about the daiquiris; they were something else and had Norton smacking his lips in approval. Suddenly an object near the sink caught his eye. ‘Holy Jesus,’ he exclaimed. ‘Look at the size of that bloody cockroach.’ Norton grabbed a magazine and rolled it up to squash the repulsive bug. Betty burst out laughing. ‘What are you laughing at?’ he said. ‘Those bloody things make me sick. It’s bad enough having to put up with them in Bondi let alone up here.’ He was brandishing the rolled-up New Idea when Betty caught his arm.
‘It’s only a dummy,’ she giggled.
‘A what?’ Norton looked at the huge cockroach, then back at Betty wondering what she was talking about.
‘It’s made out of rubber. Look.’ Laughing fit to bust at the look on Norton’s face, Betty picked up the cockroach and handed it to him. ‘See. It’s only a dummy. One of the girls bought it in Coffs and left it here. I put it there just to see if I could get you in.’ She shoved Norton in the chest. ‘And I did, too — you big goose.’
‘Well I’ll be buggered.’ Norton looked at the amazingly realistic object in his hand with a big sheepish grin on his face. ‘Have a look at that.’ He stroked his chin thoughtfully for a few moments then, as Betty poured them another daiquiri, grinned secretly to himself and slipped it in the pocket of his jeans.
They finished the blender full of drinks and headed for Coffs Harbour. Norton wasn’t sure what Betty had put in them, but when they pulled up outside the hotel just up from the Sawaddee they were roaring like Bengal tigers.
‘I hope you like Thai cooking,’ said Norton, locking the car.
‘I’ve never tried it,’ replied Betty, ‘but I like Chinese.’
‘It’s better than Chinese. A little hotter but much more spicier. Anyway, hang on a few minutes and I’ll go and get some booze.’
The hotel bottle shop was surprisingly well stocked. Norton settled for a Leo Buring Bin 13 Watervale riesling and a Mount Adam 1972 chardonnay. A glance in the glass-doored refrigerator nearly brought tears of gladness to his Queensland eyes: Fourex. He quickly grabbed a two-dozen carton of cans.
‘Are we staying here for the night?’ asked Betty, as he came out of the hotel with all the drink tucked up under his arms.
‘To tell you the truth Miss Cox,’ replied Les. ‘I’ve seen the way you drink and I’m just wondering whether this is going to be enough.’ Propelled by a quick clout across the back of the neck, Norton opened the door and they entered the Sawaddee.
There were about eight sets of chairs and tables inside: some large round ones and a few smaller, square-shaped ones. Most of the larger ones were occupied. Those that weren’t, plus the majority of smaller ones, were covered in empty bottles and dirty plates. Several dog-eared Thai Airlines posters, and one or two paintings adorned the walls and a few ferns and pot plants were propped up in the corners. At the rear, in front of an alcove that led to the kitchen, stood a bar-cum-counter made out of burnt bamboo. An ancient, silver frosted till that looked like it may have come out on the first fleet stood on top of it. Next to it was a crooked paper spike with a number of dockets skewered on to it.
Tucked into the far left-hand corner facing them was an empty, clean table. ‘That’ll do,’ said Norton, nodding towards it. They walked over and sat down. As they did, Norton noticed a group of beefy, short-haired girls, mostly dressed in bib-and-brace overalls, give Betty a wolfish once up and down from a table next to them. Les deliberately gave them all a leering grin which was answered with a simultaneous, execrable scowl.
‘I wonder who does his interior decorating,’ said Betty, glancing slightly bemused around the spartan room.
‘Same mob that supplies his tablecloths I suppose,’ smiled Les. He gave the bare pineboard a bit of tap with his knuckles and looked around for the owner.
He finally appeared in the alcove leading to the kitchen with a dish of food in each hand. As soon as he saw Betty and Les with their stack of drink he hunched his shoulders and winced.
‘How are you goin’ there old mate?’ smiled Norton as he stormed past their table.
The owner grunted something in reply and put the dishes down in front of the girls in overalls. ‘Be with you in a minute,’ he mumbled, as he scurried back into the kitchen. He was out shortly with another two dishes which he placed at the same table, then got two menus and some knives, forks and chopsticks from behind the counter which he dumped unceremoniously in front of Betty and Les.
‘You reckon you could look after this for us mate?’ said Norton, nodding to his supply of booze.
The owner winced again at all the drink. ‘We close at 10.30 you know,’ he grunted.
Norton smiled up at him as he gathered the bottles and cans. ‘Well in that case, you might have to help me drink som
e of it. You like Fourex?’
For a second the slightest hint of a smile almost flickered around the corners of the owner’s eyes. ‘Yeah. It’s not a bad drop,’ he said.
‘Well, you’re more than welcome to a few cans.’
‘Yeah. All right.’
‘Could we have a couple of nice wine glasses?’ said Betty.
The owner stared at her for a moment. ‘Certainly Madam,’ he replied icily. ‘Would Madam prefer the Swedish Nordica or the Polish Krosnor?’
‘Well, a crystal decanter would be nice,’ said Betty caustically. ‘But I’ll just settle for a couple of clean ones — if that’s possible in here.’
The owner muttered something under his breath then disappeared into the kitchen once more, with their supply of booze.
‘The Maitre-d’s a happy soul’ said Betty, after he’d left.
‘Yeah, isn’t he?’ smiled Les. ‘But I’ll tell you what. The food’s only got to be half as good as it smells and it’ll do me.’
Betty agreed. From the kitchen and surrounding tables wafted various exotic cooking odours that had their mouths watering and their stomachs rumbling like two concrete-mixers.
The owner reappeared with the opened Mount Adam chardonnay and two absolutely sparkling wine glasses: he put the lot indelicately in the middle of the table without bothering to pour, then trounced back into the kitchen.
Norton filled both their glasses and raised his. ‘Cheers Betty,’ he said, with a smile and a wink.
‘Yes. Cheers Les.’ They both took a healthy pull on their glasses.
‘Mm! This wine’s beautiful,’ said Betty, licking her lips and peering at the label. ‘What is it?’
‘I dunno. Just something I got next door,’ replied Norton, as he almost finished the first glass. ‘But it’s not half bad, is it? In fact it’s pretty bloody good.’
‘Crikey. Too much of this and I start to go like an old dressing table.’ laughed Betty.
‘What do you mean?’
‘My colour starts to fade, my legs go all wobbly and my drawers get a bit loose.’ Betty giggled and snorted into her hand.
‘In that case I’d better get another couple of bottles,’ roared Norton, topping up their glasses.
They scanned the menu and watched the antics of the owner. He treated the customers like a colony of lepers during the Middle Ages. Every time he went back behind the alcove he’d give them all the finger or pull faces — sometimes bending over and pulling the cheeks of his backside apart in their general direction. At one stage, when he brought them out a bottle of wine, he pulled a grotesque face and rubbed the bottle vigorously against his fly. Because they were tucked away in the corner he didn’t realise Les and Betty could see all this and that they were both laughing like hyenas.
‘You know who that bloke reminds me of?’ cackled Norton.
Betty shook her head.
‘Basil Fawlty.’
‘Yeah. Right. The bloke in “Fawlty Towers”.’ Betty nodded her head enthusiastically. ‘All we need is poor bloody Manuel to come scurrying out.’ As they looked over at the alcove an arm jutted out from the kitchen making an upward motion with the middle finger extended.
‘Anyway, what do you feel like?’ asked Norton when they finally stopped laughing.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ replied Betty. ‘How about I leave it to you? You’re the expert.’
‘Well I’m not really an expert,’ shrugged Les. He explained to her that, at one stage, Price had two Thai boxers working round his house, and that he and Billy Dunne started sparring and having workouts with them — which was how Norton learnt that trick with his knees which almost took Ken’s head off in Pinkies — and how after meeting their families and sampling the home cooking they got a bit of a taste for it and started going to Thai restaurants.
‘I like the Thais,’ he said, taking another mouthful of wine. ‘They seem to have a style and a. . . I dunno, sort of inner strength that’s different from the other Asian people. They’re tough little bastards, I know that. But as for their cooking. . .’ Norton closed his eyes and kissed the tips of his fingers.
The unsmiling owner suddenly appeared at their table. ‘I had a can of your Fourex you ready to order yet?’ he said in the one sentence.
‘Yeah, righto mate,’ replied Norton brightly.
‘Well, I’m going to leave it up to you,’ said Betty, closing her menu and putting it on the table. ‘Your’re the expert.’
The owner looked down at Norton out of the sides of his eyes. ‘So you’re an expert on Thai cooking are you?’ he said slowly and derisively. ‘As well as a wine connoisseur.’
‘Oh I wouldn’t say that,’ said Norton, winking across at Betty. ‘But I’ve been to a few Chinese restaurants in Sydney.’
Above him the owner winced again. ‘And what would you like?’ he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Fried rice. Long soup? How about some dim dims and spring rolls?’
‘No. I don’t know about that,’ replied Norton evenly. ‘But we might have some yam plamuk for an entree — with a big plate of boiled rice. Then we’ll have peek gai ob and gaeng ped moo — and you can make it hot, too. I don’t mind. And let’s see — yeah, pla tod lard prik. A nice snapper — if you’ve got it. And tell the cook plenty of katian and a bit of kapi Thai in with it, and go a bit easy on the coriander. And bring us out a bottle of nampla, too, will you?’ He smiled at the owner as he handed him the menus. ‘If we want any sweets we’ll let you know. Thanks matey.’
The owner finished writing, looked at Norton for a moment then closed his eyes and stormed into the kitchen.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Betty.
Norton grinned at her. ‘Don’t worry. Everything’s sweet.’
Inside the kitchen the owner skulked indignantly up to his wife. She was a slightly stocky but very attractive young woman, with hair as black and shiny as Thai-silk. She was slaving away over several woks sizzling away on a porta-gas stove. Her husband pinned Norton’s order on the wall above her head.
‘Ah shit,’ he snorted ‘Wouldn’t you know it. I’ve got another bloody Asian-cooking bloody gourmet out there.’ He pointed towards the dining-room. ‘Bloody redheaded, boofheaded big mug.’ He went to the fridge and helped himself to another one of Norton’s Fourex. ‘Your beer’s all right though — you prick.’ He took a swig and gave a finger in Les’s general direction.
His wife turned around from the stove. ‘What are you going on about now?’ she asked, in a high-pitched, sing song voice.
‘That redheaded, know-all bastard out there,’ growled her husband. ‘He’s probably been to Bangkok on a ten day tour with some Dubbo football team and now he’s trying to impress some moll he’s picked up for the night. Bloody footballers,’ he snorted taking another swig on the can. ‘They give me the bloody shits.’
‘But honestly Marty,’ smiled his wife, shaking her head. ‘Everybody give you the shits.’ She threw a handful of raw sugar into a wok full of steaming vegetables. ‘I sometimes wonder. You never have nice word for anyone. Even if Buddha came in here for meal, you would say, he no good bastard, too. You number one miserable shit Marty. You hate all customer. That man probably nice man. It is you who is mug.’
The owner looked at his wife scornfully for a moment. ‘If the truth’s known, he’s probably one of your old customers from when you used to hang around Pat-Pong Road,’ he sneered.
His wife put down her cooking ladle. ‘I soon know. I know all my old customer.’ She peered out the door pretending to be looking at Norton; suddenly she pulled her head back in and looked at her husband wide-eyed. ‘You right Marty. He is one of old customers,’ she cried. ‘And what’s more, he and rest of football team still owe me 3000 baht. He owe me extra, too, cause he so big I have to charge him double.’ she propelled Marty towards the door. ‘You go get. You tell him Sang Jarn want 300 dollars straight way. Or be big trouble.’
Marty closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and swore unde
r his breath. He stomped back out into the dining-room to leave his wife giggling like a school-girl and stirring some straw mushrooms and noodles into another wok.
By now Les and Betty had finished the first bottle of wine, so Les got the owner to bring out the other white as well as a couple of cans of beer. They were giving this a decent nudge when the entree arrived.
‘What’s this?’ asked Betty, staring and sniffing at the huge plate of food.
‘Yam planuk,’ replied Les. ‘Squid, with onion and chilli. Here, hand us your plate.’
‘Can you use chopsticks?’ said Betty, giving hers a bit of a click together.
‘Yeah. But I never seem to be able to get enough food into my gullet. So I settle for a knife and fork.’ After two tastes of the squid Betty did the same.
Reg was right about the Sawaddee. The service was about the same as you’d expect in a Russian army camp but the food was nothing short of sensational: Norton was impressed, but Betty couldn’t believe her taste buds. Within ten minutes the plate was shining like a mirror. They were commenting on the food and getting stuck into the riesling when the next dishes arrived.
‘Now what have we got?’ asked Betty brandishing her fork and almost swooning over the delicious smells.
‘What is it?’ said the owner, a bláse tone in his voice. ‘Oh nothing really. Just a bit of “chow” food my wife whipped up in the microwave. If you want some chips or tomato sauce, or a pot of gravy — just let me know, won’t you?’ He gave them each a look of utter contempt then disappeared back into the kitchen.
‘Right. Let’s see what we’ve got here.’ said Norton, ignoring the owner and pointing to the dishes with his fork. ‘Well that’s curried pork in coconut milk. They’re chicken wings in honey and ginger, and this is my deep fried snapper with chilli and garlic. And if you don’t liven up Miss Cox, you won’t get none.’
The next twenty minutes or so were spent almost in silence as they ate steadily. The only sounds were the clinking of knives and forks, the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ and grunts of ecstasy. They stopped occasionally to watch the Maitre-d still insulting the customers behind their backs.
The Real Thing Page 25