The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Peregrine. And this is Les.’

  ‘How are you, Heather?’

  ‘Hi, Les.’

  As Heather turned to Norton, Peregrine wiggled his eyebrows at him over her shoulder. Les smiled back but not too obviously. Well, chalk one up to you, Peregrine old son. The oldest dodge in the world: haven’t I met you somewhere before? And he’s pulled off a new variation of it. He edged away slightly to give Peregrine a chance to fill Heather full of Dom Perignon and piss in her pocket at the same time. Well, it’s catch and kill your own in here. Now what about yours truly?

  Norton let his eyes run around the disco in the solarium again and couldn’t help but find his thoughts running back to Ingersoll in her pink and grey tracksuit. The women around him may have been clean and well-dressed, but there were definitely no Norwegian au pair girls. There had to be a possibility on the fringes though somehow. He was trying to fathom it out when he heard an over-polite voice to his right.

  ‘Hi there. How are you?’

  She was about thirty-five, blonde, in a white sweat-shirt and loose pants holding a drink and a cigarette. She had a big arse and no tits and the nicest thing you could say about her face, which supported several double chins, was that it was homely.

  ‘Pretty good, thanks,’ replied Les, then dodged around her with a side step Russell Fairfax would have clapped.

  Someone sitting at the end of a lounge next to four other women had caught his eye earlier. She was no more than thirty. She had jet black hair combed in two neat bangs up under her chin, sexy dark eyes edged tastefully with mascara and long pink fingernails. A sleeveless black dress with Stiletto stencilled across the front in silver was wrapped around a whippy body emphasising the thin silver jewellery around her neck and wrists. Unlike the gushing women seated next to her she’d left her Zinkoff name-tag in her room and she had fox, written all over her in capital letters. Their eyes had met for a brief moment earlier and she had returned Norton’s smile. After leaving ‘fat arse’ in his wake with a body swerve, Les squatted down next to the one in the black dress.

  ‘You mind if I sit down here for a moment?’ he said. ‘There’s a couple of poofs over there keep trying to get on to me.’

  Black dress looked at him indifferently for a moment, except for the hint of a smile creasing the corners of her eyes. ‘That wouldn’t surprise me,’ she said. ‘It’s probably the shirt.’

  Norton had to give her a double blink. He’d tried to be a bit clever and she’d flattened him with a perfect squelch. ‘Shirt? What’s wrong with my shirt?’

  ‘Nothing. Apart from looking like you just pulled it out of salad-dip, it looks terrific.’ Black dress seemed to look foxier than ever when she could see she had the big Queenslander stuffed for a comeback.

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ said Les, shaking his head. ‘I’m feeling all emotional and upset so I come to you for a bit of comfort and understanding. And all you do is insult me.’ He reflected into his drink. ‘I dunno. It’s a tough old world and it’s getting tougher.’

  ‘I think you’ll live with it, handsome.’ She let her eyes run across to where Peregrine was still talking to Heather. ‘I noticed you and your friend over there getting into that Dom Perignon like you own half of Bordeaux. Any chance of a glass?’

  ‘You like a bit of French shampoo, do you?’

  ‘I love it. But unfortunately it’s not on the Zinkoff free list.’

  ‘Say no more,’ smiled Norton.

  This was the moment Les had been waiting for. He looked across the dance floor, held up his hand and caught the head waiter’s eye then made the appropriate gestures with his fingers. The head waiter understood perfectly. In roughly two minutes he was over with a fresh bottle in an ice-bucket and two glasses. Long enough for Les to find out Foxy’s name was Margaret and to tell her his.

  ‘Room 220, is it, sir?’ said the head waiter.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Norton, winking over at Peregrine as he signed the bill and slipped the head waiter a twenty; not too flashily but enough to make sure Margaret could see. Norton figured it was worth the excruciating pain of having to extract a rock lobster from his kick to bridge up a bit and it was the first time he’d put his hand in his pocket since they’d arrived at the resort.

  ‘Anyway, cheers,’ said Les, after he’d topped up her glass.

  ‘Yes, cheers. And thank you. This is lovely.’

  ‘So where are you from, Margaret?’ he asked.

  ‘Melbourne. A place called Box Hill.’

  ‘Melbourne!’ Les took another look at her eyes. ‘I might have guessed,’ he smiled.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Norton was almost laughing. ‘I was down there not so long ago.’

  It turned out Margaret was originally a hairdresser but had been a sales rep for Zinkoff for the last nine years and was now the area manager for the district in Melbourne where she lived. The job didn’t turn her on all that much but it was ten times easier than hairdressing, she now knew all the lurks and perks and all her clients and she’d be lucky if she worked three hours a day; so she’d be foolish to toss it in. She lived on her own after being married for four years to a builder who drank too much and was now divorced. Not being all that company motivated, the sales convention didn’t turn her on much either. But it was a break from Melbourne and part of the job and things could definitely have been a lot worse than drinking champagne in Penguin Resort.

  Les told Margaret he was a physiotherapist with a practice in Double Bay. Peregrine’s brother was Mark Knopfler the guitarist in Dire Straits and was in Australia buying a property on the North Coast on behalf of his brother. Les had been the band’s official masseur and physiotherapist the last time they toured Australia. Mark had kept in touch with him and had his brother contact him when he arrived in Australia to be his driver and advisor while he looked over various properties in NSW. It was all expenses paid and there was a good earn for Les at the end. How could I possibly think up a contrived load of horseshit like that? Les mused. It must be this bloody champagne. Still, it’s better than telling her I’m a bouncer up the Cross and Peregrine is a pommy pisspot on the run from the IRA. But it went over all right with Margaret. She was impressed and even thought Les looked like he could have been a masseur because he had big strong-looking hands.

  They began to get along famously. They knocked over one bottle of Dom and Les ordered another. She introduced him briefly to the women on her right who gave him polite but uninterested smiles, which suited Les because they were a boring, suburban-looking lot — their names went in one ear and out the other and he didn’t feel like sharing any of his champagne with them. Starting to glow a little from the French fizz, Margaret suggested they have a dance. Why not? thought Norton and chivalrously helped her to her feet. As they moved on to the dance floor he noticed Peregrine was nowhere to be seen.

  Margaret wasn’t real bad on her feet, much better than Les, with lots of hand and hip movements as she spun in and out of the other dancers. To Norton’s ear the music wasn’t the best for dancing to but he jigged around, even did a bit of dirty dancing and found he was starting to enjoy Margaret’s company. He also found he was enjoying the thought of getting into her pants. They had a few more dances then some real lemon came on so they sat down.

  Some of the other women had gone when they returned to the table and the disco now seemed to be thinning out in general. Les sat down next to Margaret and figured this might be as good a time as any to make a move.

  ‘Well, Margaret,’ he said, pouring them the remainder of the second bottle. ‘Looks like this’ll be over soon. What are you thinking of doing then?’

  ‘I don’t really know, Les, not much I don’t think. I have to be up reasonably early in the morning. We’ve got quite a few things on tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, we’re leaving ourselves tomorrow. But,’ Norton shrugged. ‘I was going to say, if you want to, you could come back to my room, we could have ano
ther bottle of champagne and I’ll give your back a bit of a rub. I won’t charge you Double Bay prices.’

  Margaret smiled at him from across the top of her glass while she thought about it; and somehow seemed to look more like a fox than ever. ‘All right, then,’ she said. ‘Just for a little while, though. But I won’t walk out with you. I’ll say goodnight to some people here and I’ll meet you in your room in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Les, getting to his feet. ‘It’s room 219. See you then.’

  ‘Bye, Les.’

  Norton drifted off towards the lift whistling softly to himself. This could turn out to be all right, he thought. That sheila from Melbourne is a dead set horn. And I know where I’d like to give that little fox physiotherapy. Right on her beaver. He got to his room and rang for another bottle of Dom Perignon. While it was arriving he switched the TV on to more rock video on SKY channel and got changed into a tracksuit. Almost half an hour later Les was thinking she might have changed her mind when there was a light tap on the door.

  ‘I’m a few minutes late,’ said Margaret, as she stepped inside. ‘It took a little longer to get away than I thought.’

  ‘That’s okay. I see you got changed too.’ Les noticed she was wearing a blue and white, Qa Va tracksuit which clung to her willowy body in all the right places.

  ‘Yes. This is much more comfortable. Besides, after three hours in that disco my dress smelt like a bag full of hamhocks.’

  ‘You don’t smoke?’ Margaret shook her head. ‘No. Neither do I.’

  ‘My husband used to and half the time it was like kissing an ashtray.’

  Norton chuckled. ‘Yeah. They’re not the best are they? Anyway, I’ve got another nice bottle of shampoo chilling over there. Why don’t we have a glass?’

  ‘Wonderful. Thank you.’

  Les poured them both a drink and they moved across to the sliding glass door. The view across the balcony was almost as beautiful as the one the night before, with possibly just a few more tufts of cloud drifting lazily across the night sky.

  ‘You’ve certainly got a nice view from here, haven’t you?’

  ‘It’s not bad, yeah. What’s yours like?’

  ‘All right, but we’re on the other side.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I’m sharing with another girl from Melbourne.’

  ‘Where’s she?’

  ‘Asleep.’

  ‘She doesn’t know what she’s missing, does she?’ grinned Norton, raising his glass.

  Margaret took another sip of champagne and gave Les another one of those foxy smiles from across the top of the glass that made his blood race a little.

  ‘So what about my rub?’

  ‘Sure. But we’ll have to make do with some suntan oil. It’s all I got.’

  ‘No worries,’ smiled Margaret. ‘I brought this.’ She produced a small bottle of baby oil from the front of her tracksuit and handed it to Norton.

  ‘Good as gold,’ he replied. ‘That should do admirably. Here’s what we’ll do.’

  Without waiting to be told, Margaret unzipped the front of her top, slipped it off and hung it over the nearest chair revealing a nicely rounded pair of boobs sitting comfortably in a delicate black bra, that was as much lace as it was brassiere. The half cup thrust them up slightly and pushed her two dainty pink nipples against the lace. Norton nearly crushed the bottle of baby oil in his hand and felt like kicking a hole through the sliding glass door.

  ‘Righto,’ he croaked. ‘Okay … yeah.’

  Norton put their glasses next to the ice-bucket sitting on the table and moved it a little closer to the bed then sat up one end of the bed with his back against the wall. Margaret got in between his legs and bent slightly forward, pushing her hair down on either side of her neck. With her knees up and facing the TV she fitted between Les’s legs perfectly. Les tipped a little baby oil on his hands, rubbed them together till it was warm then sprinkled oil on her back and began slowly working it in.

  ‘Mmmhh!’ she murmured. ‘That feels good already.’

  He sprinkled more baby oil on her and began rubbing it around her shoulders and up and down her spine just using the strength of his fingers.

  ‘Ohhhh! That feels so good,’ she crooned.

  ‘It’d want to,’ said Norton. ‘I get fifty bucks an hour for this in Double Bay.’

  Margaret chuckled and lightly slapped him on the knee. Les rubbed more oil around the small of her back using the flat of his hands; Margaret sighed, reached across and finished her glass of champagne. Les stopped for a moment, finished his, then poured them both another glass. He worked more baby oil into her back and around her shoulder blades, held her head with one hand and rubbed oil into her slender neck with his fingers; first one side, then the other. Her skin was soft and supple and easy to rub. Margaret was crooning softly, loving every second of it. They stopped for a moment and drank some more champagne.

  Norton slipped her bra-straps down and began working harder on her shoulders, kneading them with his fingers. Again without saying a word Margaret reached behind her, unclipped her bra and dropped it on the bed. A small tremor went through Norton and in about two seconds he had a horn that hard a cat couldn’t scratch it. Margaret leant back into him, closed her eyes and sighed; out of the bra her boobs looked rounder and juicier than ever. Les sprinkled baby oil on them and began massaging it in, watching them glisten in the moonlight as the nipples rose and firmed. Against him he could feel Margaret’s breath getting shorter as she started to come to the boil.

  She opened her eyes for a moment and looked up at him; they were two swirling pools of molten emerald inviting him down. Les cradled her shoulders with one arm and, still massaging her breasts, tilted his head down and kissed her. It was as if their lips were made for each other the way they melted together. Margaret snaked her arms around his neck and drew him down to her and her tongue, hot and sweet, played cunningly around his mouth.

  Margaret’s lips were made for kissing. They were a blend of softness and pure delight and the woman herself was brimful of sensuality and sex appeal. There was no stopping Les now. He slid his hand down the front of her tracksuit pants on to her ted, now damp and hot. He stroked it softly for a few moments as Margaret made tiny moaning sounds as she kissed him feverishly. He slipped her tracksuit pants and knickers off at the same time, then got up and stepped out of his. As he stood at the edge of the bed Margaret knelt up, reached over and took hold of his dick and slid her mouth over the end of it making moaning, sobbing sounds from deep inside her as she did. Norton’s eyes fluttered and his knees buckled. Christ! he thought. Fancy wanting to go out drinking piss with your mates when you’ve got this at home. That builder in Melbourne must have had an empty biscuit tin for a head. He let her draw on it for a while then he had to stop or he would have spurted all over the place. He eased her back on the bed and entered her; she shuddered and let out a long low groan. Norton’s old boy fed on it and got harder as he worked it in, deeper and deeper. Margaret wound her arms around his neck and back as she kissed him and rode with him, squealing all the time with delight. Ingersoll might have been strong and horny, but Margaret was sexuality plus: and all woman.

  They got stuck into it as if they were expecting Fred Nile to come banging on the door saying he was going to pass a law in fifteen minutes that there was to be no more sex in New South Wales for twenty years. Margaret thrust herself up at Les, writhing on the bed and kicking her legs in the air while Norton drove down. Then Les felt it coming and he couldn’t stop. He began to stroke faster, arching his back and stiffening his legs till finally he gripped the cheeks of Margaret’s backside giving her every centimetre and poured himself into her as she howled and writhed around the bed with unrestrained rapture.

  They lay together for a little while getting their breath back and their heads together. It had been more than just an ordinary roll in the hay. Norton cradled an arm around Margaret feeling more than a little pleased with himsel
f. Not only because it had been an unreal screw. He really liked her. She had good looks, sexuality, a sense of humour and sophistication and above all, she was the complete sensuous woman in Norton’s eyes. Whether it meant him going down to Melbourne or having to fly her up, he was going to make sure he saw plenty more of Margaret again, no matter what. Completely relaxed, he closed his eyes as he felt her get up and heard her use the bathroom. When he opened them again he saw she’d got dressed and was standing in front of the mirror tidying her hair. A small pang of disappointment went through him; he was hoping she may have stayed a while and maybe they could have gone off again.

  ‘You going already?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was hoping you might have stayed for a while.’

  ‘Well, I can’t really stay.’

  ‘No. Fair enough.’

  He wrapped a towel around himself and stepped towards her as she headed towards the door. Les put his arm around her to hold her and give her a kiss goodnight and although she kissed him lightly back she didn’t quite seem to melt into his arms.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning before I leave,’ he smiled.

  Margaret returned his smile but didn’t quite look him in the face when she did. ‘Goodnight, Les. Thanks for the champagne.’

  The door clicked and she was gone.

  Norton cleaned his teeth and straightened the bed. He began to understand Margaret’s feelings and why she left so abruptly. She’s probably a little embarrassed going off like that first time up he thought. And you can bet your life she’s never met anyone in Melbourne like the superscrew from Dirranbandi. Yes, I understand, he sighed. She’s only a woman. He watched the silent TV for a little while then went to sleep. He was looking forward to seeing her again in the morning.

  FROM THE TIME Peregrine left the disco, it had taken him approximately forty-five minutes to get into Heather’s pants and about five minutes to empty out. She told him that by coincidence she was a singer and went back to her room to get her harmonica. Peregrine had to sit through at least half a dozen songs, including a rendition of ‘Me And Bobby McGee’, that would have had Janis Joplin rolling over in her grave. She had a nasally, screeching voice like a sulphur-crested cockatoo with a bad hernia, and a brain about the same size as well. This didn’t stop Peregrine from promising her a twoyear recording contract as soon as he got back to Sydney. Oddly enough though, Heather appealed to Peregrine. She was a halfbaked, trendy dolly bird, totally naive and completely blase to anything going on around her and she’d just turned twenty — it was almost a case of birds of a feather flocking together. Peregrine decided to take her to the farm with him for the two weeks.