Les decided to take the Pacific Highway rather than the inland route, so he could see a little bit of the coastline on the other side of Coffs Harbour. It wasn’t long before they’d left the ‘Big Banana’ and most of the beaches behind them and were heading north-west towards the town on the Clarence River they call the jacaranda capital of New South Wales.
Between the tapes, the scenery and the nice new car the trip was quite pleasant. Norton kept the conversation light but steady, relating various anecdotes about life in Bondi and at the Kelly Club. Betty told him funny little things about school teaching and life in Grafton. Two things were paramount on Norton’s mind: firstly, he wasn’t too enthused at having to walk out of Betty’s life just like that. He was quite keen on the schoolteacher; she was a gem in Les’s eyes — good-looking, in a wholesome unmade up sort of way, a top body and plenty of personality. And as for making love with her; that was something else again. But — it would soon be all over, so he just had to grit his teeth. Secondly, he wasn’t 100-per cent sure whether the two shifties waiting for him would tumble for that great bag of glorified lawn-mower clippings sitting in the boot. The shit smelled all right, felt all right and looked all right, but if they smoked any? Bleah! However, he had one ace left up his sleeve to play. He sniggered to himself, reached over and gave Betty’s knee a bit of a squeeze. She smiled back happily and put her hand on his arm.
Betty, on the other hand, although a little sad at having to say goodbye to Les, was happy and content in the knowledge that he’d be in touch and it would only be a fortnight or so before she’d be seeing him again. She loved the big redhead, even though he was a bit of a rough diamond, cheeky as they come and liked to bladder on a bit about beautiful Queensland and Dirranbandi. Although he wasn’t adverse to pounding men’s heads to sausage mince, he was honest and gentle with her. When it came to him as a lover. . . she hadn’t had many affairs but she couldn’t see and didn’t want anyone better than him.
They stopped briefly at a little place called Halfway Creek for a while so Betty could take a couple more photos. Houses and shops soon started to appear on either side of the road once they crossed the old concrete and iron bridge that spans the Clarence River.
Coming off the bridge, Norton couldn’t believe the number of jacaranda trees — they were everywhere filling the air with sweet perfume which seemed to envelope you in a glorious blaze of purple and blue. And when the gentle spring zephyrs shook the branches the blossoms filled the air like a lavender snowstorm covering the streets in a magic carpet of amethyst and sapphire.
‘Christ,’ said Norton, slowing the car down to take in the beauty of it all. ‘Have a go at those flowers. No wonder they call it the jacaranda capital of Australia.’
‘Yes, they’re lovely, aren’t they?’ replied Betty. ‘The prisoners have got a bit of a saying when they’re being transferred to Grafton: when you hear those flowers crunching under the back wheels, you know where you are.’
‘Good old Grafton gaol eh! I sure wouldn’t like to finish in there.’
‘Yes, it’s a grim old place all right — though it’s not quite as bad as it was. Anyway, take the next on your right — Prince Street.’
Prince Street; that name rings a bell, thought Norton. ‘Hey Betty, whereabouts is that place where you bought that grouse blue dress?’
‘L.A. Fashions?’
‘Yeah.’
‘In Prince Street. Just up a bit further. Why?’
‘Oh nothin’. I was just a bit curious as to you getting a top dress like that in a place like Grafton.’
Betty looked at Les for a moment. ‘What do you mean — a place like Grafton?’
‘Well — I mean it’s only a country town.’
Betty looked at Norton again. ‘What do you mean — only a country town. Grafton happens to be a city. Where do you think you are? Up in the New Guinea Highlands and we all run around with bones through our noses and bird feathers in our hair?’
‘All right Coxie.’ Norton’s face broke into a grin. ‘No need to bite my head off. I was only asking.’
‘Only a country town — Humph. I take umbrage at that.’
‘Take what you like,’ shrugged Norton.
‘Anyway, what about that place where you come from? Dirranbandi. I heard you’ve got a set of traffic lights there and they change once a week.’
Norton narrowed his eyes and tightened his lips. ‘Hey, just a minute woman,’ he said. ‘Don’t start knockin’ Queensland.’
‘I also heard, the biggest cultural event in Dirranbandi for the last decade was the arrival of a singing telegram.’
‘Yeah? Well we also have a little saying in Dirranbandi; that if you owned both heaven and Dirranbandi, you’d rent out heaven and live in Dirranbandi. How’s that grab you?’
‘Like an octopus. Anyway, there it is.’
Norton slowed down and looked out Betty’s window. There was a single-fronted shop window outlined in black and pink with a black awning above. ‘L.A. Fashion’ was written across the window in a kaleidoscope of colours. He only got a glimpse of the clothes in the window but noticed they were in a multitude of colours, too. He also notice a white Ford Fairlane out the front with T.L. number plates. Norton took a quick glance at his watch — see you in about half an hour boys.
‘So. That’s where all the snobs and trendies in Grafton get their clothes, eh?’ He grinned at her and put his foot down slightly on the accelerator.
‘Snobs and trendies,’ sniffed Betty. She gave Les a thump on the arm. ‘God, you’re a rude person.’
‘Yeah I know. It’s from listening to Doug Mulray in the morning. Now where’s your joint?’
‘My home,’ replied Betty slowly. ‘That’s h-o-m-e — home, for those Queenslanders around here that can’t spell, is at the end of this street and to the right: Kirchner Street.’
Jesus, you’re a cheeky bastard, smiled Norton to himself — I wish to Christ I was taking you back to Sydney with me.
Betty’s house was a huge, old, sandstock brick home, built right up off the ground with a double garage to the side. It had a large well-kept garden and a matching brick fence running across the front. A vine-covered veranda skirted the front and one side of the house giving a lovely view across a tree-covered reserve to the river.
‘Not a bad sort of a shack,’ said Norton, stopping out the front and switching off the motor. ‘Must be some money in pullin’ teeth.’
‘Dad does all right,’ replied Betty. ‘I don’t see any cars though. He must be out somewhere with Mum. Anyway come inside.’
Norton got Betty’s bags off the back seat and followed her up a concrete path leading to the house. As he did, a moth-eaten, old black cocker-spaniel with eyes like two slices of calve’s liver came down the stairs. Its stump of a tail was going 100 to the dozen as it shuffled up to Betty whining with delight. It gave a bit of a feeble, asthmatic bark at Norton who patted its bony head.
‘Nice dog,’ chuckled Les. ‘Only a pup, too.’
‘Don’t knock our Turra. He’s an unreal dog.’ Turra flopped its slobbery tongue out and sort of half-smiled at Les to reveal a set of teeth that looked more like a mouthful of rusty tacks.
‘Good thing your old man’s a dentist.’ Norton followed Betty up the front stairs and went inside: Turra crawled up on to an old lounge on the veranda.
Inside, the house was built in the style old colonial homes were built; big and roomy, with high, raked ceilings and exposed beams. Every room was tastefully and expensively furnished, and on most of the walls hung a number of original oil paintings. Norton waited while Betty put her bags in her bedroom then followed her into the kitchen. There was a note on the kitchen table. It read: Betty, have gone to Uncle Jack’s in Armidale. Be back Monday night. Don’t forget to feed Turra. Love Mum and Dad.
‘Hey look at this,’ she said excitedly. She handed the note to Norton and slipped her arms round his waist while he read it. ‘You know what that means, don’t you? You do
n’t have to go straight back to Reg’s. You can stay the night.’
Norton read the note and handed it back to her. ‘Yeah,’ he said, swallowing a lump in his throat the size of a baseball and trying to smile. ‘It sure looks that way, don’t it?’ But Norton was adamant nothing would break his resolve. He was going back to Coffs Harbour today and it was going to be goodbye Betty, no matter how painful it would be. That’s the way it had to be.
‘We can go and have a few drinks at the rowing club,’ said Betty, beaming. ‘Maybe have tea there, it’s really nice. Then we could come home and watch a bit of TV, or whatever.’ She gave a lecherous chuckle. ‘I prefer the whatever myself.’
‘Yeah righto,’ lied Norton. ‘That sounds like a good idea.’ He had a quick look at his watch. It was almost time to start making a move, though he was certain the other two would still wait even if he was a bit late. But the sooner he got this over with the better he liked it.
‘Hey, you feel like a cup of coffee?’ asked Betty.
Norton shrugged his shoulders. ‘Wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.’
‘Okay.’ Betty put the kettle on then went to the fridge. ‘Oh crumbs! There’s hardly any milk.’ She held up an almost empty bottle. ‘Wait on. I think there’s some Carnation in the cupboard.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Les quickly. ‘I’ll duck down the road and get some.’
‘No, use Carnation. It’ll save you the trip.’
‘It’s all right. I want to get some Quick-Eze anyway. Those. . . ah, scones of Diane’s have given me indigestion.’
‘There’s some Mylanta in the bathroom.’
‘No, I can’t swallow it. It makes me sick.’
‘All right. Well there’s a little shop just round the corner. I’ll unpack some of my stuff and put the kettle back on when you get back.’ She walked to the bedroom and threw one of her bags on the bed.
Norton made a hesitant move for the front door and finished up standing at the doorway of the bedroom watching Betty unpack.
‘Well. Don’t stand there gawking at me you big goose,’ said Betty turning round. ‘Go and get some milk if you want a cup of tea. I’ll see you when you get back.’ She gave him a wink and continued unpacking.
Norton stood in the doorway a couple of moments longer staring at her back. He wanted to run up to her and hold her, kiss her, crush her in his arms. Instead he turned and walked away — out of her life forever. ‘Yeah. See you when I get back,’ he muttered, half to himself.
He climbed into the BMW and turned on the engine. ‘Fuckin’ cunt,’ he cursed out aloud and punched at the dashboard. He sat for a little while with the engine ticking over, taking a last look at Betty’s house. He jerked the selector into drive. If those two pricks fuck me around with this pot, I’ll break both their fuckin’ jaws, he said to himself, spinning the car back towards Prince Street.
Needless to say, Norton wasn’t in the best of moods when he pulled up outside L.A. Dave’s clothes shop a few minutes later. However, he soon started to realise that it was just plain stupid him having the shits with the world over losing his girl. The dope deal had to be done, and there was a fair bit of money at stake. It would be pointless him blowing that as well just because he had the shits. He took a deep breath, gave one last curse and put Betty out of his mind.
Being Sunday afternoon, Prince Street was just about deserted. Opening the boot of the car he looked around cautiously as he got the garbage bag full of dope out, walked quickly over to the shop and knocked on the door. The door opened a few seconds later and there stood L.A. Dave with his gangling frame and scraggly blonde hair. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt.
‘Hey, how are you Les? Come in man,’ he said, with his usual psuedo-hip Californian voice.
‘Hello Dave. How’s things?’
‘Unreal man.’ Dave held out his hand and gave Norton an American hippy-type handshake with about as much meat in it as a tomato sandwich; Norton felt like he’d just shaken hands with four sticks of asparagus.
‘Well, there it is,’ he said, dropping the great bag of pot on the floor next to a rack of dresses.
‘Yeah, good man. But just bring it out the back, will you. You never know who’s walking or driving past.’
‘Sure.’ Norton followed Dave through a doorway which led into a dimly lit lounge-room furnished in a sort of Balinese style. A set of stairs ran up one wall probably to the bedrooms, so Norton guessed Dave lived on the premises.
Sitting on the old, brown velvet lounge, was Tony Levin, a beer in his hand. Next to him was an anorexic-looking brunette wearing a black jump-suit which had about 200 small studded belts wrapped round it. With her hair swept back in a tight ponytail and the pair of red-rimmed owl-shaped glasses she was wearing, she looked like a cross between a skinny Joan Baez and Felix the cat.
‘You know Tony?’ asked Dave. Norton said ‘hello’ and gave Levin’s hand a light shake. ‘And that’s my lady — Francine.’
‘Hello,’ said Norton. Francine barely nodded her head. She grunted an almost audible ‘hi’, then sat back on the lounge trying to look cool and sophisticated. Norton was going to say more to her but figured she’d have about as much personality as a pumped leg of hogget, so he ignored her.
‘Well, there’s your dope,’ said Norton, plonking the garbage bag in the middle of the room. ‘You want to have a look at it?’
‘Yeah. I want to weigh it, too, Les,’ said Dave.
‘Do what you like with it.’ Norton gave Levin a withering look that made him swallow and quickly look away. ‘Just as long as I’m out of here in about ten minutes and heading back to Sydney.’
‘No worries man.’ Dave got a set of bathroom scales from next to the lounge and placed the bag on it. He could scarcely conceal his good fortune: it was a kilo more than he’d expected. He gave Tony a quick wink which Norton detected.
‘How much is there?’ asked Les casually.
‘Close enough to twenty-two kilos.’
‘You happy with that?’
‘Yeah man. That’s. . . cool.’
‘What about you Tony?’
‘Yeah, sweet.’ Levin nodded his head enthusiastically.
‘And it’s fifteen grand, right?’
‘Yeah. Price just wants the money owing to him. That’s all.’
‘Yeah. That should be all right,’ said Dave slowly. It was the steal of the year, yet Dave was still trying to act cool and businesslike. Francine was curled up on the lounge smoking a cigarette and posing. She still hadn’t said anything. ‘I’ll just have a look through the bag. All right?’ said Dave.
‘Go for your life,’ said Norton. ‘Just don’t be all day that’s all. I got to get cracking and this drugs caper’s not my go.’
‘No worries man.’
Despite still having a good dose of the shits Norton was starting to laugh a little inside at the farcical situation going on around him. The three of them had no doubt been talking plenty before he got there, and as far as they were concerned he was just some big goose who had stumbled on twenty-two kilos of top smoke and didn’t have a clue what was going on. They were ripping him off, and Price Galese, too, for that matter, and getting away with it. It was the dope scam of all time: they couldn’t believe how clever they were. Norton decided to drop his surly animosity and just act dumb.
He watched as L.A. Dave removed the plastic tie and ran his hands through and around the huge bag of pot. Norton could see the greedy glint in his eyes. The dope smelled like dope all right and after being packed tightly in the plastic bag all night and covered with Coca-Cola, it had gone like stacks of compressed heads only sticky and dripping with resin. Dave was impressed but somehow still seemed suspicious.
‘Have a look Tony,’ he said cool and slow. ‘What do you reckon?’
Tony got up off the lounge and ran his hands through the bag several times. ‘Looks okay to me,’ he said, giving Dave a quick look.
Norton stuck his hands in his jeans and leant up
against the wall with a dumb look on his face. It was time to play his ace. ‘Well I wouldn’t know the difference between the pot you smoke and the pot you put on the stove, but that stuff seems to smoke all right. Don’t it Tony?’ Levin nodded his head, looked at Les then at Dave. ‘So why don’t you roll yourselves a joint?’ Les shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’d get some out of the bag for you but they reckon the fumes from that stuff can get you stoned. I’d probably end up having a trip or something.’ Francine sniggered through her nose on the lounge — Dave and Tony looked at each other, rolled their eyes and looked away again. ‘Well that’s right, isn’t it?’ said Les dumbly.
‘Yeah that’s right man,’ said Dave, acting smug. ‘You can never be too careful with this stuff.’ L.A. Dave couldn’t help himself: he had to act the smarty in front of his team. ‘But if we’re going to have a smoke, you’re going to have to pick it out for us.’ He sat back down on the lounge and nodded to the garbage bag. ‘It’s your dope Les, and we want to see what sort of a judge you are. Pick some out.’ Dave sat back and smiled at the others satisfied he’d put Les on show.
Norton stared at the dope for a moment. ‘Are you sure it’ll be all right’ he said, looking sceptical.
‘You’ll be right man,’ said Dave.
‘All right. If you say so.’ With his hands still in his pocket Norton heaved himself off the wall towards the bag of marijuana. While he had been leaning there he palmed the dynamite dope from Reg into his hand holding it with his thumb. Looking dubious and uncomfortable he plunged his hand into the garbage bag like it was full of spiders, rummaged round for a few seconds and came up with Reg’s dope in his hand. He handed it to L.A. Dave. ‘There you are’ he said. ‘That look all right?’
Dave looked at it for a few seconds then handed it to Francine. ‘Yeah, that looks okay’ he said. ‘Francine’ll roll us up a couple of joints and we’ll see if it’s any good.’
The Real Thing Page 27