‘Yeah,’ said Billy. It didn’t come as any real surprise to him. Now and again if there was trouble or pressure on from somewhere they’d close up for a while till it blew over or Price had it sorted out. ‘What is it this time?’
‘Ahh, there’s a shitpot bloody by-election on for this ward and they reckon that whingeing prick from the Festival Of Light’s going to throw some rooster in on a law-and-order campaign. You know what he’s like.’ Price shook his head sadly. ‘Also,’ he added, ‘there hasn’t been a decent rape, bank robbery or murder for weeks. Even the kiddy pervs have gone quiet which means the papers will take up the issue.’ Price stood up. ‘Where’s all the rapists and murderers gone for Christ’s sake?’ he said waving his arms around excitedly. ‘What’s Sydney coming to?’
‘It’s enough to give you the shits,’ said Billy.
‘You better believe it.’ Price waved his hand across the huge stack of money on the desk. ‘I mean, I’m only trying to make an honest living.’
Les chuckled into his beer.
‘Hey, don’t laugh,’ said Price. ‘I’m fair dinkum.’
‘Ohh, Price, don’t get me wrong,’ said Norton, a cheeky grin on his face. ‘I know that you’re only a small businessman trying to do his best.’
‘That’s exactly it,’ said Price pointing directly at Les. ‘A small businessman trying to earn a quid and the bludgers want to crucify me.’ He sat back down, a look of abject sorrow on his face. ‘Anyway, I’m forced to close for a couple of weeks, so here.’ He pulled two stacks of $50 bills out of the drawer and handed one each to Les and Billy. ‘There’s a grand each there, that ought to keep you going for the next fortnight. Go for a holiday, have a rest for a couple of weeks. Don’t worry about me, I’ll just have to go back to being a brokey.’
The two doormen picked up the money. Les gave an embarrassed laugh.
‘That’s pretty good of you, Price,’ he said awkwardly.
Price dismissed him with a wave of his hand. ‘You boys have earnt it, you’re the best there is.’ He paused for a moment then looked at Billy. ‘What do you reckon you’ll do anyway?’
‘I reckon I’ll get my missus and the two young blokes and head down to my brother’s farm at Narooma. Might put my arse up and do a bit of fishin’.’
‘What about you, Les?’
‘Dunno. Wouldn’t mind goin’ away myself, dunno where though.’
Price looked at Norton for a moment or two before he spoke. ‘How would you like a couple of quiet weeks at Terrigal?’
‘Terrigal?’
‘Yeah, I got a weekender up there, there’s no one in it at the moment. I’ll tell you what to do.’
The following Wednesday morning Les picked the keys up, along with a map, at Price’s Vaucluse mansion and by lunchtime he was through the toll-gates at Mt. Colah and gunning his old Ford along the freeway heading towards Gosford. He had six dozen cans of Fourex, a box of groceries and a banana chair in the boot and an overnight bag with his meagre possessions on the back seat. An hour and a half later he’d cruised along The Entrance Road, found the Terrigal turn-off at the War Memorial and was sitting outside the Florida Hotel having a cool one and checking his bearings. Ten minutes later he pulled up in the driveway of Price’s weekender in Hill Top Road.
Price’s idea of a weekender was like something they’d do a ten-page article on in ‘Home Beautiful’. A creamy white concrete drive led through an immaculately kept lawn and garden to a four-car garage on the right of the house. The huge house itself was old colonial sandstock brick with enormous plate-glass windows, full of lush velvet curtains facing the street; a massive polished oak door set behind an Italian slate alcove divided the front. A matching brick fence turned into cyclone wire half way down the side of the house. This led to the back where Norton could see the sunlight reflecting off a crystal clear swimming pool roughly the same size as Burrinjuck Dam, only neater. A large, terracotta brick house was about 20 feet away on the left and on the right was just one big open garden, like a small park, that belonged to the other house next door.
This’ll do me for two weeks, Les said to himself as he rubbed his hands together gleefully while he checked out the front of the house. He went back to the car, got his gear out, placed it near the front door and took the key out to open it. There was no need to, the door wasn’t locked. That’s funny, he thought as he stepped inside. Oh well, maybe it’s a cleaner been here or something.
A short, but high hallway led to a large lounge room which overlooked the pool. To the left was a spacious, modern kitchen and before that a room or study with a louvred wooden door, on the opposite side of the hallway a spiral staircase with a huge chandelier over it meandered downstairs.
Les walked cautiously to the lounge room. Inside it looked as if a tribe of Bedouins had moved in. There was rubbish and junk everywhere. Dirty clothes and wet towels were strewn all over the lounge, magazines were scattered all over the floor. On a large tiled coffee table were two ashtrays, overflowing with cigarette butts. Next to these stood a bamboo bong and alongside this was a bowl, half full of what looked like herb tea. Les picked the bowl up and gave it a sniff. ‘Pot,’ he said out loud.
The kitchen was the same. Most of the cupboards were open, the stove was covered in grease and the sink was chock full of dirty plates and other cooking and eating utensils. The kitchen tidy was overflowing and an empty grocery carton half full of rubbish sat next to it. They both stank.
Les stood there for a moment contemplating the mess, his hands on his hips. Finally he went downstairs and checked the back door. It had been forced.
‘Bloody squatters, I thought so. I’d better ring Price.’ He went in search of the phone.
‘Throw the dirty, shitty turds out!’ Price roared over the phone. ‘And when you do, do it a la carte. I want to hear them bounce from down here.’
‘No worrys,’ replied Les and hung up.
He went outside and moved his car off the drive and down the street a bit then came back in to find a place to stow his gear.
There were three bedrooms upstairs and four below; he opted for one upstairs facing the street. He took two dozen cans and packed them in the fridge. There was some Kentucky Fried chicken in the fridge and a carton of coleslaw. It was fairly fresh so he ate two pieces and all the coleslaw. He washed this down with a carton of milk also in the fridge, gave a belch then picked up a couple of surfing magazines off the lounge room floor and went into the front room to wait for whoever was staying there.
The front room had a window facing the street and the louvred door faced the hallway so he could see both ways without being seen himself. He settled down on the night-and-day to wait.
He was sitting there, half asleep, half awake when the sound of a car pulling up in the drive brought him to full alertness; a quick check of his watch told him he’d been there about two hours. He moved cautiously to the window and peeked through the velvet curtain. It was an old Valiant station-wagon with three surfboards stacked unevenly on the roof. On the windows were decals for every brand of surfboard, wet-suit, leg-rope and radio station in NSW and Queensland. He noticed it had QLD number plates. Three fairly stocky young blokes with blond hair got out, followed by a blonde girl, probably in her teens. He moved to the side of the louvred door and waited while they filed in through the front entrance.
‘Wow, those waves were really good.’
‘Unreal tubes.’
‘Some of those lefts were so hot I couldn’t believe them.’
‘Feel like a cone?’
‘Reckon.’
‘You make the mull, I’ll pack ’em. Sally, how about makin’ some coffee.’
‘All right.’
Norton watched through the louvres as the girl went into the kitchen and the boys sat around the coffee table fussing around the bong and the bowl of pot. He waited till one of them lit the bong, sucked the smoke into his lungs and let it out in a great cloud and a croaking ‘Wow, that’s really good shit m
an.’ Then Les made his move.
He opened the louvre doors, slipped quietly into the lounge room and stood just behind them with his arms folded across his chest and an evil grin on his face. ‘Hello surfies,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Enjoying your stay on the Central Coast?’
They all spun around as one then stood up, their eyes looked like poached eggs. The one holding the bowl dropped it and the mull went all over the floor. The girl came running out of the kitchen. The three boys were all pretty solid from doing plenty of surfing and were all wearing fairly standard surfie garb; multi-coloured board shorts, T-shirts and thongs. The girl had on a Billabong singlet and a wrap round batik dress. She had straggly blonde hair and a good body, but her pimply face had enough holes in it to hold a week’s rain.
‘Who the fuckin’ hell are you man?’ said the surfie who had just had the smoke.
‘Who am I?’ replied Norton sweetly. ‘Why I’m Mr. Makeshaw.’
‘Mr. Makeshaw. Who the bloody hell’s that?’
‘I’m here to make sure you cunts are out of the place in about ten minutes.’
The tallest surfie slowly looked Les up and down. ‘And just who’s gonna put us out man? You?’ He turned and smiled at his mates. He was feeling pretty game, there were three of them and they were young, fit and all well built. However, like a lot of young surfies they’re world beaters in the water but on dry land they find it’s a different ball game altogether.
Their pimply-faced girlfriend decided to put her head in as well.
‘We got squatters’ rights here anyway, man. There’s no one living here and you can’t put us out. So why don’t you just piss off?’
‘Yeah. Sally’s right, man.’ said another. ‘So piss off.’
Norton stood there nodding his head imperceptibly, a sage expression on his face. ‘Squatters’ rights, eh?’ he said slowly. ‘I never thought of that.’ He stroked his chin and moved over the coffee table. ‘Not a bad looking bong. Where’d you get that. Katmandu?’
‘Nah, me mum bought it for me,’ sneered the tall surfie. The others all laughed.
‘Mum bought it for you did she?’ Norton picked up the heavy bamboo bong by one end. ‘Well, what a nice mummy you’ve got.’
He brought the bong across in a short vicious arc and smashed the tall surfie across the face with it, sending a splash of evil smelling water across the loungeroom and the surfie cannoning into the wall, his mouth a mess of blood and smashed teeth. He hit the one on his left with a backfist that broke his nose and toppled him over the lounge on to his back. The third one stood there slightly mesmerised looking left and right at his two mates; Les swung his foot back and gave him a Woolloomooloo uppercut straight in the balls. He screamed and doubled up with pain. In almost the same movement Norton jumped over the lounge and gave the second surfie another backfist, just to make sure he got the message.
‘Now stompie wompies,’ he said, still holding the bong menacingly in his right hand. ‘We’re going to have a little cleanup party.’ He turned to the girl who was standing there shaking, her hands over her face. ‘And you’re in this too, Sally sea slug.’ He took her by her straggly blonde hair, spun her round and kicked her up the backside into the kitchen. She gave another scream. ‘And don’t come out of there till it looks like the operating theatre at St. Vincent’s.’
Norton walked over to an alcove in the hallway, picked up the car keys one of the surfies had thrown there, then walked back into the lounge room, rattling the keys in one hand and slapping the bong menacingly against his thigh with the other.
‘Come on girls, liven up,’ he said gaily. ‘We don’t want to be all day now, do we?’
The tall surfie who had copped the bong in the face was propped up against the wall, mopping blood from his mouth with the tail of his T-shirt.
‘Think you’re pretty bloody tough, don’t you?’ he said glumly.
Norton strode over to him and stood there almost eyeball to eyeball. ‘I don’t think I’m tough,’ he hissed. ‘I am tough. Very tough. Now move your fuckin’ arse.’ He grabbed him roughly by the scruff of the neck and spun him across the room. ‘You too, blondie, let’s go.’ He picked up the one he’d kicked in the balls and sent him after his mate, propelled by a kick in the backside.
‘How are you goin’ in there, sea slug?’ Les stood ominously at the entrance to the kitchen, but Sally was going at it busier than a one-armed paper hanger with the crabs.
About 40 minutes later they had the house cleaned up enough to pass Les’s inspection and their gear was stacked next to the front door. He had another quick check of the kitchen and lounge then walked over, opened the front door and followed them out to watch as they put their belongings in the old white Valiant; still slapping his thigh with the bong.
‘Anyway,’ said Les, talking to them as if he was farewelling some old friends. ‘Don’t forget to call in next time you’re in Terrigal, it’s always nice to see you. And be careful driving home. Oh,’ he added, ‘I almost forgot. Your mummy’s present.’
He bent slightly at the hip and drove his huge fist straight through the rear panel window of the station-wagon. The girl screamed as splinters of glass showered over her and the bong landed in her lap. Smiling sweetly he walked up to the tall surfie seated behind the steering wheel and handed him the car keys.
‘Don’t forget to say hello to mum for me, won’t you?’ he said.
The car started up and they drove slowly off up the street with Les waving to them. ‘Ta-taa,’ he called out, then went inside and closed the door.
Feeling a bit peckish by now he went straight to the spotlessly clean kitchen, pulled a Fourex out of the fridge and threw a T-bone, roughly the same size as a phone book, under the griller. Three cans of beer later, it was on the kitchen table surrounded by eggs, tomatoes, bread and butter and a big pot of tea. Now that the little drama was over Les settled down and was looking forward to his nice quiet two weeks in Terrigal.
He’d just taken his first bite of steak when there was a knock on the door.
‘What the bloody hell?’ he grunted. Norton needed a visitor then like Kampuchea needs a year’s supply of Metrecal. ‘This better not be those fuckin’ surfies,’ he growled as he stormed to the front door and flung it open.
Standing there was a dumpy little Salvation Army officer; he looked like Peter Lorre wearing a bus conductor’s hat. ‘Good evening sir,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I’m collecting for the Red Shield. Would you care to donate?’
At first Norton looked at him like he was going to eat him, but in his heart he always had a bit of a soft spot for the Salvos because of what he’d seen them do round the Cross. He pulled a $20 bill out of his pocket and poked it in the collection box; it was so long since the collection box had seen a ‘rock lobster’ it nearly spat it straight back out. The little Salvo’s knees buckled.
‘Thank you sir. Thank you,’ he said profusely, raising his cap. ‘God bless you.’ He God blessed Norton as he backed off all the way down the drive. Norton gave him a wave and went back inside.
A warming feeling of self-righteousness crept over Les as he ate his tea. Yessir, he thought to himself, this is going to be a really nice two weeks. Really nice. He finished his meal, cleaned up, then made his bed and sorted out his clothes. He watched TV for about an hour, finding it boring, so he jumped into bed and went straight to sleep; in the fresh, clean country air and the peace and quiet Les slept like a baby.
Thursday morning dawned warm, bright and clear with the birds chirping and not a cloud in the sky. After a superlative night’s sleep Norton was up at six, roaring like a tiger. He had a mug of Ovaltine, put his running shorts on, threw a track-suit over the top and headed for Terrigal Beach.
He parked his old Ford opposite the Florida Hotel and checked out the scene; there was hardly a soul around. The clear, early morning revealed a long golden strip of sand running from Terrigal to the rocks this side of Forresters Beach; Les judged it to be roughly nine kilometres there and
back. He wrapped a sweat band round his head, did a few stretches and took off.
The sand at the water’s edge was cool and firm under his feet, in no time at all he’d gone two kilometres and when he reached Wamberal surf club he was just starting to clap on the pace. With his lungs full of unpolluted fresh air Norton was going like a machine. An old, yellow labrador dog came down from somewhere and tried to run along with him but threw in the towel after a couple of hundred metres.
He sprinted over the rocks at Bob’s Bay and across another short strip of sand till he came to a beautiful, sandy little cove, fronted by a crystal clear lagoon and surrounded by trees and grey, black rocks which he recognised from his local map as Spoon Bay; he stopped there and did a series of push-ups, sit-ups and squats. The sheer beauty of the quiet, secluded little beach got him in so he decided to come back later and do a bit of relaxed sunbaking. He had another quick look around and headed back to Terrigal.
He hit the beach opposite the Florida like a runaway express train, did a few more sit-ups with his feet hooked under a park bench then threw his track-suit on, bought a paper and headed home for a swim, a shower and some breakfast.
After eating enough bacon and eggs to bloat King Kong, Les sat around drinking cups of tea and reading the paper till he decided it was time to go to the beach. He grabbed a few pieces of fruit and a couple of magazines, tossed them in an overnight bag along with a towel and a few other odds and ends, then locked the house up, jumped in his car and headed for Spoon Bay.
It was about 10.30 when he got there. He parked the car in a small parking area, got his banana-chair out of the boot then followed a leafy, narrow path full of frilly-neck lizards taking advantage of the early morning sun, down to the beach, which was completely deserted. He picked a secluded spot near some rocks, opened up the banana-chair and spread a large beach-towel over it. How good’s this he thought to himself as he eased his big frame on to it and started to read. Peace and quiet.
You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids Page 5