The Godson

by Robert G. Barrett

  Warren could have been namedropping a little or mishandling the truth about the Mojo party. Mojo weren’t actually throwing it. They were there, but the party was being thrown by a guy called Harry Madigan who ran an advertising and music agency called Keen As A Bean. Les had got to know Harry through various parties Warren had taken him to and he used to come up to the game now and again for a flutter at the tables or on the roulette wheel. Harry wrote jingles and did a lot of voice-overs because he had one of those husky, crackling voices that at times could make John Laws sound like Tiny Tim. Like a lot of blokes in their late thirties, Harry’s hair had seen better days and his face told of late nights in a lot of recording studios. But he had cheerful, rolling eyes and the razor-sharp wit you need to survive in the cutthroat Sydney advertising scene.

  He was standing just inside the back door of the hotel talking to a couple of people when Les walked in. As soon as he saw Norton he smiled a big welcome and extended his hand.

  ‘Hello, Les,’ he said, in his familiar deep, gravelly voice. ‘How are you, mate?’

  ‘Good thanks, Harry.’

  ‘Warren told me you were coming.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks for inviting me.’

  Madigan winked. ‘The party’s upstairs. Just go to the bar and order what you like. There’s food and all that. I’ll see you up there later.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Harry.’

  Norton stepped lively up the stairs into three large rooms full of comfortable lounge chairs with a small bar at one end and a piano in the middle. There were about a hundred well-dressed people in there, some dancing, most of them talking and laughing in small groups. Les recognised a few musicians and a few heads he’d seen on TV commercials. Everyone seemed to be having a good time and although the party had more or less just started they were all well into it. Warren was in the end room talking to his bosses; he caught Norton’s eye and waved. Les got a bottle of Crown Lager from one of the girls behind the bar and walked over.

  ‘Hello, Woz,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘The landlord,’ smiled Warren. ‘You got here.’

  ‘Yeah,’ enthused Les. ‘It looks like a good turn.’

  ‘It is.’ Warren nodded to his bosses. ‘You remember the boys from work?’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Les. ‘How’s it going, fellahs?’

  Warren’s bosses knew Les from the Melbourne wine commercial and they shook his hand warmly and smiled; the ad had been a success so there was a good vibe there. After that it was all plain sailing — Norton was one of the chaps.

  Les talked to Warren and his bosses for a while then went to the bar and kept filling up on various drinks, then roamed around in general getting pleasantly pissed. There was no shortage of drinks, no shortage of food, no shortage of anything and especially no shortage of good-looking women; and everyone who Les smiled and said hello to seemed to smile and say hello back. One thing Les did notice as he eased his way through the crowd, ear-wigging different conversations, was the number of one-liners flying around. With all this advertising crowd it was virtually one-liners at two paces. Did you hear about the… ? How do you… ? What’s the difference between…? Why did the… ? There were some rippers though and secretly he wished he’d brought a notebook with him to write most of them down.

  Eventually he finished up back at the bar ordering another bourbon, about the same time as a tall willowy blonde who ordered a champagne with a dash of blended strawberries. She was quite a good sort, late twenties, straight well-groomed hair and a pretty if slightly serious face. She hadn’t gone overboard with the make-up and above a thin nose was a pair of probing green eyes which seemed to be thoroughly evaluating everything as she glanced around the room. Soberly dressed in a double-breasted brown jacket and a pleated, cream skirt, she looked like she could have been the editor of some women’s magazine or a TV producer. Norton tipped her to be a feminist. So what, he thought, half full of drink. They can’t hang you for being polite.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, half raising his glass. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good thanks,’ replied the blonde. ‘Enjoying the party?’

  ‘Yeah,’ smiled Norton. ‘It’s a donger.’

  ‘Who are you here with?’

  Les pointed to Warren. ‘That guy over there with the fair hair in the red shirt.’

  ‘Oh, Warren,’ said the blonde. ‘I know him. He’s with Wirraway, I think.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him. I share a house with him at Bondi.’ Les smiled at the blonde. ‘I suppose you’re in the advertising game?’

  She nodded and gave a little laugh. ‘Yes, CRC at North Sydney. What about yourself?’

  Les shook his head and grinned. ‘No, I’m a doorman. I work in a casino at the Cross.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But I have done a couple of TV commercials,’ said Les. ‘Through Warren. Only as a joke though, more or less,’ he added.

  ‘I think Australia’s turning into just one big TV commercial.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Les. ‘I think I know what you mean. Anyway, what’s your name?’

  ‘Janice.’

  Norton raised his glass. ‘I’m Les. Pleased to meet you, Janice.’

  Janice smiled and clinked Norton’s glass. ‘Nice to meet you too, Les.’

  It turned out Janice was a receptionist for CRC and lived at Rose Bay paying off a home unit which she shared with a girlfriend who was a nurse. She was twenty-seven, didn’t go out all that much and was into learning the piano; she had one in her unit. Les told her a bit about himself and about Warren; they discussed life in general. Norton appeared to be getting along famously with Janice and wouldn’t have minded following up. But he still wasn’t too sure where her head was at and underneath the niceness he still had a sneaking suspicion she could have been a down-in-the-mouth feminist. Only one way to find out.

  ‘I notice they don’t mind a one-liner around here,’ he said.

  ‘Ohh, don’t talk about it,’ said Janice. ‘I have to put up with them all day at work.’ She smiled at Les. ‘You’re not about to hit me with a barrage, are you?’

  Norton smiled back and made a little gesture with his hand. ‘What’s the difference between a feminist and a can of Foster’s?’ Janice shook her head. ‘A can of Foster’s is cold but it’s not bitter.’

  Janice nodded and smiled. ‘How do you get fifty Australian men into a Holden sedan?’ Norton had to shake his head. ‘Put one in, make him a union delegate, and the rest will crawl up his arse.’

  Touché, thought Les. Language a little coarse but well put together none the less. ‘Why did Frankenstein shave his legs?’ he asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he got sick of everyone thinking he was a lesbian.’

  Janice gave a throaty chuckle and a wave of her hand. ‘Ohh, look,’ she said, ‘let’s give the one-liners a miss. Next it’ll be Irish jokes. Then Polish jokes. We’ll be here all night.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ agreed Les.

  Les was going great guns with Janice. But unfortunately she had to leave early. She had to meet her flatmate and they were going to visit some other girls who had just moved into a unit at Dover Heights; a sort of drinks with the girls. No, she had nothing planned for tomorrow night. Dinner? Why, that would be lovely. A five o’clock movie beforehand? Why, that would be even better still. Drinks somewhere afterwards? What a delightful way to finish an evening. Janice gave Les her address and phone number. Les said he’d see her about four-thirty. He’d ring before he called over. Bye bye.

  The look in Janice’s eye when Les gave her hand a light squeeze just before she left suggested to Les she’d much rather be taking him back to her place for a bit more than piano lessons rather than having drinky-poohs and talking shit with the girls. Norton couldn’t help but smile to himself as he watched her shapely dark-stockinged legs going out the door. Well, that’s not a bad result on the night. Nice and handy to home. Not a bad sort and not bad to talk to either. I’ll give her a g
iant spray tomorrow night with that three grand and you never know your luck, Janice might take me back to her place and let me put my hand on her D-minor.

  The party continued. People came and went. Madigan and some musician mates got a bit of a band together, sang songs, sent up commercials and got everyone into a bit of a singalong. Warren disappeared, probably with a girl. Les ate more choice food, drank more bourbon and white rum and got progressively drunker till around eleven he discovered he was starting to talk in Swahili so it was time to go before he made too big a dill of himself. He said goodbye to one or two people, thanked Madigan again for a top night then stumbled off towards Oxford Street to find a taxi.

  LES GOT UP around eight to find Warren hadn’t come home. Norton didn’t bother to do any training, he’d done enough through the week, so figured he’d just go for a brisk walk after breakfast. He got the papers, cooked some chops and sat around reading while he waited for Warren. The advertising genius steamed in the front door about nine-thirty, badly in need of a shave and a change of clothes, but looking very pleased with himself.

  ‘And just where the fuck have you been all night?’ said Les, as Warren walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t ring, mum,’ replied Warren. ‘But I was having too good a time.’

  ‘And who was this particular strumpet you picked up on the night?’

  ‘Dunno,’ replied Warren, switching on the kettle to make himself a cup of coffee. ‘She was just up from Adelaide for the weekend. She was staying at some sheila’s place in Randwick.’

  ‘Mmmhh.’ Les looked at Warren over his coffee. ‘Are you going to have a shower?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. Why?’

  ‘Well make sure you throw plenty of disinfectant around in there after you. And don’t use any of my bloody towels.’

  ‘Ohh piss off.’

  ‘And I hope you made sure you used a condom last night.’

  ‘No way, baby,’ grinned Warren. ‘I ride ’em bareback. The Man from Snowy River, that’s me.’

  Norton shook his head. ‘Fair dinkum, Woz. Don’t you believe in safe sex? Don’t you watch the ads on TV? If Ita Buttrose found out you had a fuck last night without using a frenchie, she’d have a stroke.’

  Warren’s grin seemed to get bigger. ‘I don’t know about Ita Buttrose having a stroke. But I was stroking pretty good about seven o’clock this morning.’

  ‘Bloody disgusting,’ huffed Norton, then he smiled up at Warren. ‘It was a good turn though, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Reckon. Madigan’s a terrific bloke.’ Warren made his cup of coffee and took a sip. ‘So how did you finish up?’

  ‘Good. Drunk, singing and…’ Les told Warren about meeting Janice and the arrangements he’d made for the afternoon and evening.

  ‘Janice from CRC.’ Warren shook his head. ‘I don’t think I know her.’

  ‘She said she knew you.’

  ‘Well that’s only natural,’ breezed Warren. ‘All the girls know me.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right there,’ nodded Les. ‘Every cracker from Macleay Street at the Cross down to the wall at Darlinghurst. So what are you doing today?’

  ‘Going over the oldies. My sister’s down from Newcastle, so Uncle Warren is going to spend the day with his two nephews.’

  ‘Good one, mate.’ Norton rose from the table and put his empty mug in the sink. ‘Well, I might leave you to it. I’m going for a walk.’

  ‘Okay,’ nodded Warren. ‘You’ll probably be gone when I get back, so have a good time tonight.’

  ‘Yeah. I got a feeling I will. See you, Woz.’

  Norton got his tracksuit top from his bedroom and strode off into the brisk morning air. He headed up Bondi Road, skirting around the crowds of shoppers and housewives and members of the Jewish faith, all done up in their coats and hats taking their Saturday walk to the Synagogue. I suppose there’s always something to see in the city thought Les, as he passed a couple of good sorts and three weird-looking punks waiting at the bus stop. But I still think I prefer birds, animals and nice clean billabongs to freaks, junkies and overflowing garbage bins. He got as far as Waverley Oval and climbed to the reservoir to have a look out across the ocean and the city. Somehow his thoughts kept drifting back to Cedar Glen, the Humdinger Boogie Woogie Dance, the possums, little Alison. They also kept drifting back to Benny Rabinski and that strange letter. He may have been back in Sydney and miles away from the Tweed Valley but that matter certainly wasn’t over yet. He was still thinking about it when he got home just before twelve.

  Les was pottering around in the kitchen figuring out what to do till four-thirty when the phone rang. It was Billy.

  ‘Hello, Les,’ he said. ‘How are you, mate?’

  ‘Not too bad, William,’ replied Les. ‘How’s things with you?’

  ‘Ohh, all right, I suppose.’

  Norton wasn’t sure, but he thought he could detect something in the tone of Billy’s voice. ‘So, what’s doing?’

  ‘Ohh, not much. I just thought I’d ring you and see what you were up to.’

  ‘Nothing. I’m sitting here reading the paper.’

  ‘What I really meant was what are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Tonight? I’m taking out a sheila I met at a party last night. We’re going to the pictures this afternoon then dinner afterwards.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Norton could definitely detect something in Billy’s voice now. ‘Billy, is something wrong?’

  Billy sucked in his breath over the phone. ‘Yeah. Big Danny had a prang on the way home from work last night. He’s all right. But he’s got to have his neck in a brace for a few days, and he can’t come to work tonight.’

  ‘Ohh, shit! So who have you got?’ Les already knew the answer.

  ‘No one. I’ve tried everyfuckin’where. Balmain, Rozelle, all round the Cross. They’re all short-staffed because of that flue goin’ around.’

  ‘Shit!’ repeated Les.

  ‘Yeah. So it looks like I’m gonna have to do it on my own.’

  ‘Shit!’ said Les again. He knew what Saturday night at the Cross could be like. ‘And you dead set can’t get anyone?’

  ‘No. Not a soul. And I just don’t want to grab some mug.’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘So I just thought I’d ring you and see what you were doing.’

  ‘Well like I said. I was going out.’

  ‘Yeah, fair enough. Look don’t worry about it. I’ll find somebody.’

  ‘No, hold on.’ Before Les knew it he’d capitulated. ‘I’ll come up. I can probably take this tart out some other time.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah, sweet.’

  ‘Good on you, mate. I wouldn’t have asked you, only it’s Saturday night and Eddie’s still in Melbourne.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you about eight o’clock.’

  ‘Good on you, Les. I owe you one.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m starting to think just about everybody does. See you tonight.’

  Les hung up and stared at the phone. ‘Well wouldn’t that fuck you?’ he said out loud.

  The last thing Norton felt like doing was standing in the cold wind out the front of the casino arguing with drunks all night. Especially with three grand in his bin and a good sort like Janice waiting for him. But what could he do? Billy had guarded his back plenty of times and he would have done the same for him. Imagine if he’d said no and Billy got hurt. But what a lousy rotten break. So, that settled, what to do for the rest of the afternoon? Ring Janice and tell her he couldn’t make it, have a snooze, then iron a shirt and get ready for the pickle factory at eight o’clock.

  Norton heaved himself off the lounge, got Janice’s phone number from his bedroom and reluctantly called her.

  ‘Hello, Janice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Les from last night. How are you?’

  ‘Oh, hello. I’m good. How are you?’

  ‘Not too bad, thanks.’ I was till
about five minutes ago, thought Norton.

  ‘I’m glad you rang early. Look Les, I hate to do this to you, but I can’t make it tonight.’

  ‘Oh?’ This took Norton by surprise. Now he didn’t know whether to be pleased or have the shits.

  ‘We had a bad scene back here at the flat last night.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, I left the girls early last night. Trudy, who I share with, came home later and some guy attacked her as she was coming up the side.’

  ‘Fair dinkum. Jesus, that’s nice.’

  ‘She screamed and managed to kick him in the shins. But the bastard near choked her and he punched her in the eye.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Luckily the people above us just arrived at the same time and the headlights of their car made him run off.’

  ‘Did you call the cops?’

  ‘Yes. But they never found him. Poor Trudy. She’s got bruises all over her neck and a dreadful black eye. The doctor’s put her under sedation. But honestly Les, I couldn’t leave her in the flat alone. She’s in an awful state.’

  ‘Yeah. I can imagine. Jesus, there’s some bastards around.’

  ‘So I’m really sorry, Les. But…’

  ‘No that’s all right. I understand. I just hope your girlfriend’s all right.’

  ‘Thanks. Maybe some other time?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘You do sound disappointed.’

  ‘Well, you know how it is. But I’m just wondering what to do with these flowers and chocolates.’

  ‘Flowers and chocolates? Oh Les, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Maybe not. But I’m just an old fashioned country boy at heart. And… I dunno Janice, I really fancied you.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll give them to old Mrs… Kelly, across the street. Her husband’s in hospital dying of cancer. It might help cheer her up.’

  ‘Oh, you’re sweet, Les.’

  ‘Thanks. I try.’ Les looked out the window towards the sky. One day Norton, the bloke upstairs is going to give it to you. One day.

  ‘Look,’ insisted Janice. ‘We’ll have to make this another time. In fact, why don’t you give me your phone number, so I can ring you?’