‘Kelvin says we might be seeing a bit of each other over the next few days. I was up there waiting for you.’ Frank and Steve didn’t say anything. ‘With all this Crystal Linx rattle.’
‘Ohh yeah, that,’ said Steve.
‘I’m just helping Kelvin and her with the press barrage and the fans. Get them home safely and that.’ Norton shrugged. ‘It’s a few days’ work.’ Frank and Steve nodded, but didn’t say anything. ‘So how’s the pop music business going?’
Frank looked at Steve for a second. ‘Pop music?’
‘Yeah. Kelvin told me Mr Black owns a record company in Brisbane. He’s promoting Crystal’s new record.’
‘Ohh, the record company. In Brisbane.’ said Steve. ‘It’s going good.’
‘Keeps us busy,’ added Frank.
‘You been working for Mr Black long?’
Frank seemed to think for a moment. ‘About a year or so.’
‘Yeah. He doesn’t seem like a bad bloke. I had a bit of a mag to him going up the stairs. He’s South African, eh?’
‘Johannesburg,’ said Steve. ‘He was in the record business over there.’
‘I’m from Sydney myself. Where are you blokes from? You gotta be Queenslanders?’
‘Brisbane,’ answered Frank, not with a great deal of interest.
‘Brisbane, eh?’ Les shook his head. ‘Jees, I haven’t been there in a while.’
Norton continued to make small talk long enough for him to figure out that Steve and Frank were handing out answers like gold watches and were probably wishing he’d piss off. He was about to say goodbye when Meyer and KK walked out the front door. Frank got straight behind the wheel, Steve opened the back door without bothering to ask Les to get out of the way. KK was leading; Norton handed him the keys and smiled.
‘I put it in number two.’
‘Good on you, Les,’ said KK, taking the keys.
Meyer was waiting for him to get in first. KK made a quick gesture with his hands. ‘Well, like I said Les. You’ve got the night off. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Just remember, it’s all on tomorrow.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.’ Norton stepped back to let Meyer into the car. ‘Nice to have met you, Mr Black.’
‘Yes. You too, Les.’
Steve closed the door, got in beside Frank and in no time the BMW was across The Esplanade, heading down Hancock. Norton watched them off, giving a friendly wave. He took his time walking up the stairs to his flat, he took his time getting a glass of ice-water and he took his time drinking it out on the back sundeck in the breeze. So, Mr Meyer Black, thought Les, as he watched a handful of surfers catching a few swells that were closing out a bit in the slightly onshore wind. If you’re in the record business, my Sowth Efrikan friend, Saddam Hussein’s in the Salvation Army. You might be, but somehow that brief chat with your two gorillas makes me think different. You don’t need pros with guns to go round sticking records in juke-boxes.
The longer Norton sipped his ice-water, the more he was convinced there was skulduggery afoot and he might make a phone call later on. Oh well, he shrugged, so what if KK is putting on some sort of a stroke. I can’t see it involving me. If it does, I’m on the toe. He can do what he fuckin’ likes. Les drained his glass and flung the ice out into the empty swimming pool. All I know is, I’ve got the night off and I’m all cashed up. And the afternoon too. So what will I do?
Les went to his bedroom, looked out the window then looked at his training gear. I could have a run and do a heap of sit ups. In this heat? How about I go for a nice long walk and check out the Gold Coast. Leaving what he had on, he went out to the kitchen where he’d left his sunglasses next to some money he’d absently dropped near the phone. Norton picked up a twenty cent coin and flicked it into the air. Heads north, tails south. Five minutes later the flats were secure and Les was across the beach, heading at a brisk pace along the firm sand at the water’s edge towards Main Beach.
Norton was right about the disco set-up. It was a local radio station along with some nightclub getting a promotion going, on the beach, right in front of the sprawl of shops and high-rises surrounding Cavill Avenue. He stopped for a while to watch about half a dozen young girls, mainly blondes, bumping and hoofing around in their bikinis to the usual Madonna, Prince, or whatever dance music. Three of the girls were all right, the others could have played half-back for South Sydney. The crowd on the beach seemed to be enjoying it, whistling and cheering as a couple of cops in shorts hovered round in case any mugs got too out of control. Not a bad turnout for nothing on a Thursday afternoon in the sun, mused Les, and continued walking.
Walking along the beach was more than pleasant. The low tide ensured plenty of firm, damp sand and the light sou’-easter behind was welcome because it was certainly hot enough. There were plenty of others walking too; people of all ages, sex, nationalities, shapes and sizes. Some would smile, some would even give a quick greeting. All except the Japanese. They avoided eye contact as if their lives depended on it, and appeared absolutely terrified to say ‘g’day’. Well, up yours too, thought Les. And your whaling companies, your drift-nets and your attitude towards the environment in general. Shitty little bastards.
About another three kilometres on, the crowd started to thin out then thickened a little as he got to Main Beach. There were still kilometres of beach ahead and although it was still pleasant, it was starting to get a little monotonous. Les checked out a few punters and girls on the beach then decided to have a walk round the back streets and head home.
He ran across The Esplanade, half walking, half jogging along the streets heading towards the highway. It was mainly blocks of flats, a few houses and no shortage of high-rises. He found a small shopping centre and bought a soft-drink, crossed walkways and stopped on a bridge over the Nerang River to watch several speedboats zooming across the water and around the canals beneath. There were more high-rises with each one seeming as if it was trying to out do the other. The ultimate was a purple, mauve, pink and blue monstrosity that appeared to be a hundred storeys high. It looked like something on the cover of one of those big, glossy, fantastic planet, science-fiction magazines; and if some bloke in a space-suit riding on the back of a pterodactyl came flying around the building carrying a ray-gun, Les would not have been in the least bit surprised.
In a back street, just off the highway, something a little nicer and with a lot more character caught his eye. Tucked in amongst the flats and high-rises was a small, two-storey boarding house. It had to be, because a sign out the front said, ‘Boarding House. Mrs Llivac Proprietor. Vacancy.’ It was white timber, and four blue poles held up a verandah right across the front, dotted with comfy old seats and chairs. The iron railing was red and blue and ran into a set of steps at one end. There were two glass doors in the front and in the centre was the main door with a fly-screen on it. If Norton wasn’t mistaken, an old grey cat was asleep on one of the seats. Yellow and red bougainvillea meandered through the wooden lattice work beneath the verandah, with a sizeable garden in front of that and a white picket fence separating it from the road. There was a woman pottering around in the garden wearing a loose blue dress and a straw hat. She looked about forty, not a bad style, maybe a little plump with tarty blonde hair poking out from beneath her hat. She had healthy brown skin and a happy brown face which seemed to accentuate the bright pink lipstick round her mouth.
She noticed Les looking at the flowers, looked up and smiled. ‘Hello there,’ she said pleasantly. ‘How are you doin’?’
If Norton wasn’t mistaken, there was the hint of an American accent.
‘Pretty good thanks. How’s yourself?’
‘Fine. Jes fine.’
‘Nice garden you’ve got. You must put a lot of work into it.’
The woman pushed her hat back a little. ‘Oh, all the dust and soot coming in off the highway doesn’t help much. But I get by. Just as long as I keep at it.’
‘In fact,’ said Les, ‘that’s a n
ice house you’ve got all round. You must be the last boarding house left round here. How come the developers never got to you?’
‘Goddam white shoes. They’ve been trying hard enough. But I’m quite happy the way I am.’
‘Good on you,’ laughed Norton. ‘In fact, if I wasn’t already booked in somewhere, I’d probably stay here myself.’
‘You could do a lot worse.’ The woman smiled generously. ‘And I make the best deep-dish apple pie on the Gold Coast. And that’s a fact.’
‘I’ll bet you do, maam,’ grinned Les. ‘I’ll just bet you do. Anyway, I got to get going. Nice talking to you. Goodbye.’
‘You take care now, you hear.’
Norton was still chuckling to himself almost a kilometre along the highway. Well, isn’t it nice to know there’s still some genuine people in the world. He strode on in the heat and before long he was back in the main drag of shops and high-rises approaching Cavill Avenue.
Les could hardly believe the difference. One minute he was chatting to a pleasant lady over her fence. The next thing it was traffic, stop-lights, noise, people surging along the footpath past hotels, arcades, a TAB. Photo shops, food shops, shops selling everything from a T-shirt for $5 to a house on a canal for quarter of a million. Asian spielers jumped out of jewellery shop doors at the Japanese tourists. Other spielers, mainly women, jumped out at everyone and they all seemed to zero in on Les. ‘Can I interest you? Did you know that? Would you like to take advantage?’ By the time he made it to Cavill Avenue, Norton felt like he had a big question mark on his forehead and a beanie with a propeller sitting on top. Cavill Avenue appeared to be a huge mall with pine trees running down the middle. To the right was the Nerang River, the other way led to the beach. Les decided to walk down to the beach.
It was another surge of people, this time going past restaurants, discos, outdoor eateries, more shops selling T-shirts, other shops, Ripleys Believe It Or Not, all stacked one on top of the other; plus more arcades, a shopping centre and two currency exchanges jammed in amongst this. There was a post office on one corner and a hotel with mirrored windows on the other. A street ran off to the left. Les thought he’d check that out on the way back. Another white shoette collared him just as he crossed the corner; Norton told her to piss off.
Les strolled amongst the outdoor restaurants, stopping to watch some girls with a huge rag-doll tied to a pole, braiding coloured do-dads into people’s hair. A country and western band was starting to set up, and a busker in an Akubra hat was wailing away near a sunken chess board next to a bronze statue of two kids examining a sea shell. Yes, well it’s all happening in sunny Surfers, thought Les, as he strolled down to The Esplanade corner.
A McDonald’s overlooked the beach on one corner and a Hungry Jack’s on the other, with no shortage of punters, mainly tourists, stuffing themselves with Big Macs or Bacon Burgers De-Luxe. The disco on the beach had packed up and the high-rises were throwing shadows right across to the water’s edge. Les thought he’d check out the street he’d seen earlier. On the way, he strolled into an arcade, bright, modern, mainly white marble, crammed with shops and lots of lush greenery. A huge white statue of Michaelangelo’s David stood above a fountain, his wozzer pointing out over the shops, punters, chairs and tables and a bank of Chinese eateries where for $3 you could stuff yourself with Chinese food till it was coming out of your ears. Norton stood there for a moment or two and watched a swarm of people doing exactly that. He walked on to the street he’d seen earlier.
The whole street seemed to be crammed cheek by jowl with discos or nightclubs and more arcades. A sort of fair-sized bar called the Boulevarde, built out onto the footpath, caught his eye and he was almost tempted to have a couple of hundred beers after the long, hot walk. But something more appealing was right behind him. A nice little health-food shop with chairs and tables out the front called the Love Train. It was cool and green inside with all these lovely little posters on the wall: Remember Yesterday, Dream About Tomorrow, But Live Today. May You Always Have The Freedom To Be Yourself. The World Is Full Of Beauty When The Heart Is Full Of Love. I like the last one, thought Les sincerely. Tell it to that curry-eating bag back in Sydney. The people behind the counter couldn’t have been any nicer. Norton ordered an Orange Julius, which went down in about two swallows. Then a Hunza pie and a Real Choky, which he took his time over at a table out the front while he watched the punters go past.
Yes, things could be a lot worse, mused Les. Heaps. I’m sitting in the sun, I’ve got money and a top place to stay. One certainly can’t complain. The last piece of Hunza pie went down along with the Real Choky. He patted his muscled stomach. Well, that was all right for a snack. What about tea and what am I going to do tonight? Fuck cooking anything, there’s too many grouse-looking restaurants around for that. And I suppose I’ll be dining out with KK and Miss America mostly. But I’m going to have to have a drink. Imagine if friends popped in and there’s nothing in the fridge. It would be embarrassing, to say the least. There was a bottleshop barely twenty metres directly in front of him. He bought two dozen bottles of Power’s Red Stripe, a bottle of Jim Beam Green Label and two large Diet Pepsis. That should do till tomorrow. But I don’t feel like lumping this back in the heat. He was about to start looking for a taxi when something else he’d noticed earlier made him smile. He strolled back up to the corner next to the hotel with the mirrored windows.
There were three pedi-cabs sitting there, with the drivers, two men and a girl, either sitting on or standing next to them. Naturally Norton chose the girl. She was in her twenties, scraggly brown hair jammed under a sweat band, no make-up, wearing a pair of football shorts and a stained, loose fitting kind of singlet. Her mouth was set and Les couldn’t tell what her eyes looked like because she was wearing dark sunglasses.
‘You know Hancock Avenue?’ he said.
‘Sure do,’ replied the girl, probably having been asked the same question a thousand times by the same number of yobbo male tourists.
‘Down the end, on The Esplanade.’
‘Righto.’
Norton got into the pedi-cab, placing his booze at his feet; the girl slipped the bike into low gear, got up on the pedals to do a U-turn out of the Mall, and the next thing they were on the highway heading south.
The red-headed Queenslander didn’t quite know what to think as they whirred along in the traffic. He felt like a real yobbo tourist, a big bloke getting some sheila to cart his frame round for a laugh. Also, it felt terrific sitting back after that long, hot walk with the afternoon breeze blowing over his face. But the view, right in front of where Norton was sitting, was the best he’d seen since he got off the plane. The girl driving the pedi-cab had a backside that would break your heart; sitting on a long, muscled pair of brown legs that ran all the way up to it. There was just the right amount of condition in her tanned back, running across her shoulders into her arms; and under the singlet, there wasn’t a part of her moved that shouldn’t. Norton didn’t get a look at her melon, but she had a figure that made some aerobics instructors he knew in Sydney look like Roseanne Barr.
‘So how long’ve you been doing this?’ he asked her.
‘Ohh, about six months,’ answered the girl.
‘Hard way to get a dollar.’
‘You’re not kidding. Keeps me fit though.’
‘I imagine it would,’ answered Les, nodding his head enthusiastically, as the girl got up on the pedals again to go round a stopping taxi.
‘But this is my last bloody night. Thank Christ!’ ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I’m out of here after tonight. And out of Surfers next Tuesday.’
‘Fair dinkum? Where are you going?’
‘Taree. You know where that is?’
‘Yeah. I’ve driven through there a few times.’
‘I got family there.’
‘How are you getting there? Taking the pedi-cab?’
‘No,’ laughed the girl. ‘I get the bus Tuesday morning. I share a flat
with a couple of other girls. I move out. Another’s moving in.’
‘Sounds like a good way to see Australia.’
‘Australia, yeah.’ The girl had to get back up on the pedals to stop them getting crushed by a truck. ‘Not bloody Surfers.’
They swung into Hancock and by the time they got to The Esplanade corner the view was still as good as ever. Better if anything. Especially when the girl got back up on the pedals as they took the driveway in front of the flats.
‘How much do I owe you?’ asked Les getting out of the pedi-cab with his booze.
‘Six bucks’ll do.’
‘Here you are.’ Norton gave the girl a twenty. ‘Keep that.’
‘Oh. Thanks very much.’
It was worth it for the bloody view, thought Les. That wasn’t all he was thinking. ‘You look a bit thirsty. I’ve gotta take this stuff upstairs. There’s couple of cans of soft-drink in the fridge. Do you want me to bring you one down?’
The girl looked at Les for a minute. ‘Okay,’ she shrugged.
Norton was up the stairs, his booze in the fridge and back down with two cans of Solo quicker than it takes Angry Anderson to comb his hair.
‘There you go,’ he said, ripping off the ring-pull and handing it to the girl.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Thanks a lot.’
‘You’re welcome.’ The girl took a hefty swallow. Norton watched her, taking a swig himself.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Des.’
‘Des. I’m Les.’
‘Nice to meet you, Les,’ smiled the girl.
‘So this is your last night working in Surfers, Des?’
‘Yep. Thank Christ!’
‘I’m only up here for a few days myself. Working for the bloke that owns these flats.’
‘Kelvin Kramer.’
‘You know him?’
‘Everybody does, don’t they?’
‘He’s bringing out his girl, Crystal Linx. You know her?’
White Shoes, White Lines and Blackie Page 4