The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘No, just up the coast a bit,’ replied Norton innocently. ‘But the car still goes all right. And those holes are sweet. No rain gets in.’

  ‘No rain gets in.’ Kileen was starting to spin out. He kept looking at the station wagon in disbelief. ‘Where did these all come from, for Christ’s sake?’

  Billy poked a finger in one of the holes. ‘From a gun, I’d say,’ he said, very matter of factly. ‘More than one, too, by the look of it.’

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ howled Kileen. ‘How am I bloody well going to sell this?’

  ‘Easy,’ said Billy. ‘Just shove a price ticket on the window and stick it out the front. You own a car yard, don’t you?’

  ‘Ohh great,’ said Kileen, closing his eyes for a moment. ‘And who am I going to sell it to?’

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ shrugged Billy. ‘Why don’t you take it out to that mosque at Lakemba? Sell it to one of those Lebanese. All the cars look like that in Lebanon. They wouldn’t know the difference. They’d probably snaffle it up ’cos it reminded them of home.’

  ‘Oh shit!’

  ‘Maybe one of those punk bands might buy it,’ suggested Les. ‘They go for that bad, mean look. Run some studs into the upholstery. Slash the interior up a bit.’ Les and Billy exchanged rum looks as Kileen still stood there shaking his head. ‘Anyway, we got to get going, Bill,’ said Les. ‘Thanks again. And if you got any beefs, give Price a ring.’

  ‘Yeah. If he can’t come out, he’ll probably send Eddie,’ said Billy.

  ‘See you mate,’ said Les.

  ‘Ta ta, Killer,’ said Billy.

  As they walked to Billy’s car, Kileen’s body seemed to shrink as his face got longer. Out of consideration and sheer good manners Les and Billy waited till they were about five hundred metres up the road before they burst out laughing.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ said Les.

  ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be up there attacking Price’s bourbon after this,’ answered Billy.

  They were still laughing when they reached the turn off at St. Peters.

  ‘So, where do you fancy going for a feed, Billy?’ asked Les.

  ‘What’s wrong with The Diggers? We can have a few beers as well.’

  ‘Okay,’ nodded Les. ‘I might even shout.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Billy. ‘What were you smoking while you were up there?’

  ‘That’s another story too,’ winked Les.

  IT WAS ALMOST five when Les and Billy left The Diggers. Billy had a T-bone, but after two weeks of barbecues at Cedar Glen, Les couldn’t look at another steak so he went for the roast pork and vegetables. The rest of the afternoon was spent drinking steadily and doing their best to avoid the eyes of the other drinkers in the club who kept looking over their way and wondering what the two rather solidly-built gentlemen were roaring about, especially the shorter, dark-haired one.

  Les didn’t big note too much about the sexual romps, but he did give Bill a blow by blow description of what happened with Marita and Coco. He also gave Billy a blow by blow description of the two fights at the local pub, which Billy loved. Billy made Les give him another bullet by bullet account of the gunfight at the farmhouse, with Billy seriously concluding it was a bloody close thing. Both he and Les raised their glasses to that. By late evening both of them had a reasonably good head of steam and Billy said he’d better get home, have a quick nap and get some coffee into him to be ready for work that night. Les picked up a barbecued-chicken when Billy dropped him off; stuff cooking anything — he still had to relate the entire story to Warren yet. He told Billy if he didn’t see him later in the week he’d give him a ring over the weekend.

  WARREN ARRIVED HOME with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s around six and a look of expectation and hunger on his face to find Norton pottering around in the kitchen.

  ‘Righto, Les,’ he said. ‘I want to know exactly what happened up there. From the moment you left and how that car got to be in such a state.’

  ‘Okay,’ nodded Les. ‘But get changed first and then have something to eat. A lot of this you shouldn’t hear on an empty stomach.’

  ‘All right then.’

  Warren had a quick clean up and got changed into a pair of jeans and a jumper.

  ‘What’s for tea anyway?’ he asked, returning to the kitchen.

  ‘Roast chicken, mashed potatoes with mayonnaise and my special salad.’

  ‘I thought you might have cooked another casserole. It’s cold enough.’

  Norton looked at Warren impassively. ‘Woz, we had that last night. Do you seriously think I’d serve stew to a gourmet advertising executive two nights in a row?’

  ‘I never thought of that,’ considered Warren. ‘It appears that between myself and Sir Peregrine not only your manners but also your code of ethics is improving. Slowly. But definitely improving.’

  ‘Have a beer anyway,’ winked Les.

  ‘Yeah. Good idea.’

  The meal was washed down with Stella Artois. After they’d cleaned up, Les sat back down at the kitchen table and opened two bottles of Corona.

  ‘Okay, Woz,’ he said, taking a mouthful. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘Right from the beginning. The morning you left here.’

  Norton thought for a moment. ‘All right, then. You know that surf photographer who hangs out at Tamarama? Tony Nathan…’

  IT WAS ALMOST midnight when Les finished giving Warren the entire story of the trip. They finished up in the lounge room with the heater and the stereo softly on 2MMM where they managed to knock over four more beers, all the Jack Daniel’s and two bottles of Moet. At one stage Les thought he was going to have to get an oxy-viva for Warren he was laughing so much, especially at the part when Les told the girl from Port Macquarie that Peregrine had Melon Syndrome and what he did to the one who gave him the flick at the same time, right up to the look on Kileen’s face when he took the station wagon back covered in bullet holes. Warren even got a laugh out of the shoot-out, until Les showed him the two balaclavas. They finished up with Warren still wheezing with laughter and Les half-falling off the lounge.

  ‘So, Woz, old mate,’ he slurred. ‘That was my two quiet weeks in the country with Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III. Who is now back safely in England recovering from his tick bite with his sheila Stephanie whatever-her-name-is, and his precious painting of the Chinaman. And bloody good luck to him too. There’s a lot worse blokes in the world than me mate Pezz.’

  Warren wiped his eyes and tried to talk, but found he was too drunk and his throat was too sore to speak. There was a drunken silence between them for a while, broken only by the soft music from the radio, when Norton spoke.

  ‘Warren,’ he hiccupped. ‘If I can make it to my room, I am going to bed. I am that drunk I can’t even scratch myself.’

  ‘S’orright for you,’ mumbled Warren. ‘I got to go work in the morning.’

  Norton heaved himself up from the lounge. ‘G’night, Woz. Will you turn the lights and the heater off?’

  ‘If I can find the switch.’

  Norton weaved his way into his bedroom, crashed on the bed and dragged the blankets over him. He didn’t even bother to take his running shoes off.

  THURSDAY MAY HAVE been the first of September and the beginning of Spring, but it could have been doomsday for both Les and Warren. They bumped into each other in the kitchen at about eight-thirty, both feeling as seedy as raspberries and with breath that would have stripped the chrome off a bumper-bar. Warren had the macrobiotic, vitamin-enriched breakfast he usually had when he was hungover: a glass of soda water, two Codral Reds and a cup of black coffee. Les opted for the soda water and a bowl of porridge. They both agreed their condition was worth it in a way as it had been a funny night. After belching and farting around the kitchen like two old molls for about twenty minutes, Warren shuffled off to work and Les told him he’d see him when he got home. Thank Christ I don’t have to go to work today, mumbled Les to himself as he heard the front door close.


  It was still cold and bleak outside and Les knew the only way he was going to get rid of his hangover was to sweat it out of himself. He couldn’t be bothered driving anywhere so he slipped into a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt then jogged from his place down to Curlewis Street and did a lap of Rose Bay golf links. After a few sit-ups back at his place and a shower, Norton was feeling decidedly better than when he got out of bed, if not quite one hundred percent. After a pot of tea and some toasted chicken sandwiches, he was feeling even better again. He was sitting in the kitchen reading the paper when the phone rang. It was Price calling from Muswellbrook.

  There was no mistaking his cheery voice over the phone. ‘Hello, Les,’ he beamed. ‘How are you, son?’

  ‘Price,’ answered Les. ‘I’m good. How’s yourself?’

  ‘Terrific. Sorry I haven’t spoken to you since you got back. But I’ve been up here with the missus running around buying horses. I tried to call you yesterday, but you must have been out.’

  ‘Yeah, I was with Billy. We took Kileen’s car back.’

  Price laughed. ‘What did the pisspot say? Eddie said the car was full of bullet holes.’

  ‘He didn’t say all that much,’ replied Les. ‘But he looked like the portrait of Dorian Gray as we were leaving.’

  ‘Good. That’ll teach him to come up to the club and drink all my free piss.’ Price’s voice changed. ‘Listen Les, seriously. I’m sorry about what happened up there. Eddie told me what came down. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe it wouldn’t have if Peregrine hadn’t sent his girlfriend a card telling her where we were.’

  ‘Yeah, the young flip. You’d think he’d have more brains.’

  ‘Anyway it’s all history now, Price.’

  ‘Yeah. But I still don’t like my boys getting shot at. O’Malley’s pretty rapt in what you did too, Les.’

  ‘I was talking to him on a car-phone. He sounds like a good bloke.’

  ‘He’s a gem. And if he says he’ll do you a favour he will.’

  ‘Whatever. But I’m not worried about it.’

  ‘So have you got any of that five grand left?’

  ‘Yeah. A fair bit.’

  ‘Well, keep that. Danny’s up the club with Billy so have a few more days off. Shout yourself a few days up at Surfers or something. Get out of the bloody cold for a while.’

  ‘Jesus, I wouldn’t even mind doing that. Thanks, Price.’

  They chatted on for a while longer then Les hung up, telling Price if he didn’t see him over the weekend he’d see him up the club next week.

  Norton looked at the phone for a moment and a thought struck him. I know who I’ll ring up. He got Alison’s phone number from his bedroom and dialled Brisbane. Alison wasn’t home, but a rather suspicious sounding mother was. Les left his phone number and a message for her to ring reverse charges if she wanted. Thank you. When he hung up Norton had a feeling he wouldn’t be seeing much more of young Alison. Oh well, you win some, you lose some. But what a top little babe. And a ton of fun. So what’ll I do now? It’s a prick of a day outside. But I’ve got around three grand to spend. I know, I’ll shout myself a new pair of jeans and a track-suit, and maybe a new pair of running shoes. Les drove up to Bondi Junction and did just that, then sat around in the Plaza drinking hot soup and having a perv. By the time he got home around five with a couple of videos and two slices of rump steak he found Warren home early from the advertising agency.

  ‘So, how are you feeling now, Woz?’ he asked when he spotted him sitting in the kitchen.

  Warren’s eyes said it all for him. ‘If I was a greyhound, they’d have me put down. I feel like something that’s been condemned by the Board of Health.’

  ‘You had anything to eat?’

  ‘I had a drover’s breakfast when I got to work. A cigarette and a walk around.’

  ‘I thought you’d given ’em up?’

  ‘I did. Now my mouth tastes like the grease-trap at Homebush Abbatoirs.’

  ‘Well I got some steaks and a couple of videos.’

  ‘I could eat a steak. What are the videos?’

  ‘Chuck Norris and Chevy Chase.’

  ‘Ohh shit!’ Warren shook his head. ‘Anyway, it won’t worry me. I reckon I’ll be in bed by ten. I’m saving myself for the Mojo turn tomorrow night.’

  ‘What time does it start?’

  ‘Four o’clock. It’s upstairs in the pub opposite.’

  Les cooked tea then after the news they settled down to a quiet night watching videos. Warren felt better after a decent feed and even managed to get down two bottles of beer, which immediately put a head on everything he’d drank the night before. He stayed up to watch Chuck Norris spinning heel kick his way through a multitude of baddies in Los Angeles, then blast whoever were left over to pieces with an assortment of automatic weapons before finishing up with the available piece of crumpet. However Chevy Chase po-facing and one-lining his way around Mexico didn’t turn him on all that much and he went to bed, saying Norton’s taste in videos was pretty much like his taste in suits. To which Norton replied he didn’t have a suit. To which Warren replied that’s exactly what he meant. Norton was left to ponder on this as he watched the last of the video and found himself nodding off towards the end. He was glad when it finished so he could get to bed himself.

  FRIDAY MORNING WAS cold and sunny with a brisk westerly blowing. Les was up before Warren and missed him when he came back from training, opting for a few laps of Bondi and a hit on the bag in North Bondi Surf Club. The early morning chill had kept it down to the regulars. Les recognised a few familiar faces who said hello Les, haven’t seen you for a while, how have you been? To which Les replied good. Which was true. Because he’d worked off the weight he’d put on at Cedar Glen, plus a little extra.

  After a shower and reading another newspaper over breakfast plus catching up on the news on TV the last couple of nights, the realisation that he was definitely back in the big city well and truly dawned on Norton. The nation was in the very best of hands — there were around fifteen thousand homeless kids sleeping on the streets and National Parks and Wildlife needed three million dollars to save the koalas from extinction. So the government spent five million dollars on a report to expunge the English language of such words as ‘manpower’, ‘mannerism’, ‘manoeuvre’ etc so any feminists working on the government payroll wouldn’t be offended. Which should be very comforting to the next homeless kid sleeping near a manhole cover, thought Les, to know that he is now sleeping next to a personhole cover. The hole in the ozone layer was increasing, along with the greenhouse effect, so the government in its wisdom was going to let the Japanese woodchip all the forests on the South Coast for the next fifteen years. What they didn’t destroy, a Canadian mob would — with a billion dollar woodchip plant in Tasmania right beneath the hole in the ozone layer, guaranteed to pollute the surrounding ocean as it turned all the trees into woodchips to be sold back to Australia as cardboard cartons so we could increase out national debt. Some traitor suggested we try recycling our paper. But this was poo-poohed because it wouldn’t be cost effective and it was easier to chop down all the trees. Meanwhile the French were doing their bit for the environment by exploding more atomic bombs in the Pacific and blowing up all the bird colonies in Antarctica to build airfields. And because some greenies protested about this outside the consulate, various money-hungry radio broad-casters labelled them loonies, lefties and ratbags. Yes, it’s certainly a great world thought Les, reflecting back to those poor simple hippies in the country trying to protect what was left of mother nature. I think I know who the ratbags are.

  The state of the nation and the world in general weren’t the only things that disturbed Norton that morning. A very strange letter arrived as he was out the front tinkering with his old Ford just before lunchtime. As soon as Les saw the envelope he knew it spelled trouble. Printed on the back was Tweed Valley Stock And Station Agents And Auctioneers. Oh-oh, thou
ght Les — here it is. Well, it had to come sooner or later. Now I reckon I can expect a visit from the wallopers.

  Norton frowned darkly as he looked at the envelope and tried to figure out the best thing to do. He could send it back address unknown, or no longer at this address. No, that wouldn’t work. They’d get a summons to me sooner or later. No, bugger it, I’m going to have to face this bloody thing. Fuck it. Les opened the letter, quickly read the contents and an even darker frown crossed his face. What the — what’s this fuckin’ Rabinski trying to pull. Benny might be kosher, but this bloody letter ain’t. There’s something very wrong here. Les decided to read the letter again inside, over a cup of coffee. He went into the kitchen, made some instant and read the letter again. Slowly.

  Dear Mr Norton,

  Please find enclosed a cheque for $500 for your bond money. You failed to collect it when you returned the keys to Cedar Glen to our office. The office would also like to thank you for introducing us to Sir Peregrine Normanhurst. To show our appreciation we have enclosed a cheque made out to you for an additional $250. If you are ever in the Tweed Valley area again feel free to visit our office anytime.

  Yours sincerely

  Benjamin M. Rabinski

  Norton sipped his coffee and his eyes narrowed as he slowly nodded his head. Yeah, good try Benny, you miserable little prick. I cash these cheques and that automatically proves I was at Cedar Glen for two weeks. Then bingo! The nice summons. Call into our office Mr Norton — and in two minutes every copper in Murwillumbah would be in there. No, fuck it, I’ll give Cameron a ring on Monday and take these up to him. If my ace lawyer Carnivore T. Funnelwebb, can’t figure this out, no one can. Les put the envelope on his dressing table, finished his coffee then went back to tinkering with his car. It was a funny one though, especially the cheque for the extra two-fifty. And how did they find out about Peregrine? He never introduced him to them. Norton was still pondering a little on this when he caught a cab to the Mojo party at four-thirty wearing his new jeans, long-sleeved checked shirt and black leather jacket.