Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (23 page)

At two-thirty, he rang the Seven Gypsies Restaurant in Enmore.

‘Hello. Is Grigor there, please?'

‘This is Grigor.'

‘It's Les Norton, Grigor.'

‘My friend.'

‘That little matter we discussed. Can you fix it up at eleven-thirty this Saturday night?'

‘Consider it done, my friend.'

‘Okay. I'll see you later, Grigor.'

‘Goodbye, my friend.'

Well, that's that, thought Norton, looking at the phone. For better or for worse. Everyone's out of the flats. My arse is covered. And when it does go up I imagine those sheilas will be running power from the flats and it'll look like they've overloaded the system. Lovely. Now, what will I do with myself?

Norton decided to spend the rest of the afternoon very low key down the beach. He walked down to Bondi and found a spot south of the pavilion where he propped; reading, swimming and watching the girls and the surfboard riders. If there was anything on his diabolical mind he certainly wasn't showing it.

When Warren arrived home about six he found Norton in the kitchen whistling and getting a Caesar salad together.

‘So, what're we having for tea, landlord?' he said, getting a glass of mineral water from the fridge.

‘Chops and salad. And I got an apricot pie from the Gelato Bar. We'll have that with a bit of ice-cream later. That suit you, oh magnificent one?'

‘Sounds reasonable. But I'm going down for a swim first. I'm fuckin' boiling.'

‘You do that, Warren,' replied Les. ‘Enjoy your swim. Just leave me here to slave in this hot, stinken kitchen.'

After tea that night they were sitting in the lounge room watching TV and sipping coffee. Norton was in a much better frame of mind than the previous night and Warren noticed it.

‘You're in a better mood tonight, ugly. Not like last night. What's going on?'

‘I had a bit of luck today, Warren. I managed to get a job.'

Warren gave a double blink over the top of his coffee. ‘You
whatlT

‘I got a job as a kitchen hand. In a restaurant over at Coogee.'

Norton told Warren how he'd bumped into Bob Quigley and that he'd offered him a job. He started tomorrow night at five-thirty.

‘Kitchen hand?' said Warren. ‘That's about the lowest job in the book. You're kidding.'

‘Well, what else am I gonna do? I've got no trade. No brains. You've convinced me I'm just a Queensland hillbilly. I reckon I'm lucky to get another job. I just hope I can keep the bloody thing.'

Warren stared at Norton in disbelief. ‘Do you really need a job that bad?'

Norton stared back at Warren in equal disbelief and his voice rose. ‘Fuckin' oath I do. I got bills to pay. Rates. Insurance. I got to eat. I got to feed you, and you eat like a fuckin' horse.' Norton took a sip of coffee. ‘Besides, I'm used to working of a night. What else am I gonna do? Sit around here pickin' my toes and looking at you for the next six months?'

Warren shook his head. ‘I can't figure you out. You're un-fuckin'-real.'

‘And I can't figure you out, Warren. One minute you're whingeing about having me here all the time.
Then when I get a job, you poke shit at me. You're a funny bloke.'

‘I don't know why you don't shout yourself a decent holiday, you miserable big cunt. Surely you're not that broke?'

‘Hah! A holiday. You'd love that, wouldn't you, you little weasel? More parties every night. More molls in my bed — or the way your luck's been running lately, it'd probably be some old poof in a dressing gown. No, Warren. It was either I get a job, or put your rent up.'

Warren stared at the TV. ‘Take the job, Les. If anybody asks what you're doing, I'll say... I don't know what I'll say.'

‘Just tell them it's a hard old world out there, Woz, and the landlord's doing his best.'

Warren was still shaking his head when he went to bed later that night. For Norton, it was all he could do to keep a straight face.

Thursday had clouded over with a light southerly blowing when Les rose around six thirty. This suited Norton. He decided to stick at home and he low rather than hang around the beach for the next three days. The die was cast for Saturday night and although it all looked sweet, you could bet there'd be a glitch or two between now and when the balloon went up so it wouldn't hurt to keep his wits about him and keep the old thinking cap wedged firmly on his head. He had a run in Centennial Park and went over the whole thing in his mind — he could only think of two other minor loose ends, things he could quite easily attend to today.

Warren had left for work early when Les got home. Norton got cleaned up and the first thing he did was ring Grigor and arrange to see him at ten-thirty. As taciturn as ever over the phone, the Romanian said that would be all right and little else. Norton had breakfast, read the paper, got into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and at ten headed for Enmore.

*

The same heavy opened the door of the restaurant, only this time he had a big smile and let Norton straight in. Grigor was seated at the same table, only without his brother. The heavy brought coffee and Les got straight to the point. He explained how he'd organised the street party to get everyone out of the flats and that there would probably be quite a number of people milling around out the front. Knowing how Grigor didn't like to discuss certain matters over the phone, Les said that he thought it best he called over. Grigor liked that. He also agreed that even though there was no problem in the first place, the explosion would now look exactly as Les had hoped: a power overload caused by the band. Grigor added that he and his brother would add a little something to the mix to make sure there was a great shower of sparks before the fireball. In the meantime, don't worry and don't bother to get in touch. The next time they would meet would be when he and Vaclav returned from Tasmania. Norton finished his coffee and wished Grigor good fishing.

Well, thought Norton, as he drove back to the Eastern Suburbs, that was only a minor detail I suppose, but now at least Grigor knows exactly what's going on. And it's always better to be sure than sorry. Now, there's only one other little thing I can think of. Norton glanced at his watch. It's not even lunchtime. With a bit of luck maybe I can knock this one on the head at the same time. As he pulled up just down from Blue Seas Apartments, he was pleased to see, as he walked up from his car, Sandra's old white utility out the front. He was even more pleased to see, as he peeked over the fence, the red-headed artist was hanging out some washing on the line in the back yard. Norton hurried to the storeroom, got the yard-broom and slowly and casually pushed it around the corner to ‘accidentally' bump into Sandra.

‘G'day, Sandra,' he said easily, moving the broom around some leaves and other bits of rubbish. ‘How's things?'

Sandra turned around in her skin tight, stone-washed jeans and equally tight red tank top and gave Les one of those smiles that despite his feelings towards her now, nearly made him want to break the broom over his head.

‘Oh, hello...' she appeared to think for a moment. ‘Les. How are you?'

‘Not too bad,' replied Norton. ‘Just doing what a good little caretaker should be doing.' Sandra smiled as she continued hanging out her washing. Norton kept sweeping, pushing the rubbish into a small pile near the fence. ‘That party should be a ripper on Saturday night,' he said.

‘Party?' said Sandra, pausing momentarily from what she was doing. ‘What party?'

Norton stared dumbly at the artist for a second then screwed up his face in mock remorse. ‘Ohh, Christ!' he said, making a futile gesture at the air. ‘Me and my big bloody mouth. I'm not supposed to have said anything. Bugger it.'

Sandra stopped what she was doing and stared directly at Les. ‘Just what are you talking about, Les?'

Norton affected a sheepish grin. ‘Ahh, shit! I wasn't supposed to have said anything.' Sandra's eyes narrowed. ‘I was talking to the girls on the roof the other day.'

‘Franulka and the girls in the band?'

‘Yeah. I just happened to mention that this Saturday was your birthday. And right out of the blue they decided to throw a surprise street party out the front.'

‘A street party?'

‘Yeah. They're going to call it the Prince Charles birthday bash, 'cause it's his birthday too. But really, it's a surprise birthday party for you. And I've gone and given the bloody thing away.' Norton shook his head in disgust. ‘Jesus, I'm a nice bloody goose!'

Sandra continued to stare at Les. ‘A surprise birthday party, just for me. I don't know what to say.'

‘I know what bloody Franulka will say when she finds out you know. Stuff it.' Norton kicked at the pile of rubbish in mock annoyance then turned to Sandra,
anguish and remorse etched deep in his craggy face. ‘Look Sandra, do us a favour, will you?'

‘Sure, Les.'

‘Don't let on to the girls that you know anything.'

Sandra smiled and gave a dainty shrug of her smooth, brown shoulders. ‘Yeah, that's okay. Though I have to admit, I do feel rather flattered.'

‘Yeah. It certainly is nice of them. So just make sure you're there on Saturday night, and act like you don't know anything. Okay?'

‘No worries.'

‘And if you should see me, or anyone else, stacking up stuff out the front, just sort of, you know... edge your way around it.'

‘I understand, Les. I won't say a word.'

‘Ohh, good.' Norton looked relieved and began sweeping the rubbish again. ‘I know one thing for sure. The way the girls were talking, it's going to be one hell of a party.'

‘Yes. Knowing them, I'm sure it will be.'

‘Anyway, I'll get this finished and get out of your road. Before I put my bloody big foot in it again. I'll see you later, Sandra. And remember, not a word.'

‘You needn't worry, Les. No one will know a thing. Bye bye.'

‘Good on you, Sandra. See you later.' Norton gave her another sheepish grin and pushed the pile of rubbish around the side passage.

As soon as he was out of sight, Norton tossed the broom back in the storeroom and hurried back to his car. Christ, he thought, as he got behind the wheel, if ever they make lying an event at the Olympic Games, I'd take out a gold medal every time. He gave a quick smile towards the sky. I'm not really a liar, you know — I've just got a bad grip on the truth, that's all. But at least she'll be there for sure now, thinking she's the belle of the ball — instead of in her flat bonking some bloke when the place goes up. As Norton drove past the old block of flats an evil grin broke out across his
face. Well, goodbye, Blue Seas Apartments, my million-dollar investment. The next time I see you, you cockroach-infested pile of shit, you'll look like Hiroshima in 194S. And fuckin' good riddance too. Norton drove home and made a bit of lunch.

He pottered around the house for the rest of the afternoon mulling things over in his head; but there was nothing he could think of now to get unduly concerned about. It was all go. He thought of giving Price and Billy a ring, but decided to leave it till tomorrow. Before he knew it, it was getting on for five o'clock and time to get ready for work.

Norton reflected on what it would be like working in a kitchen; greasy, smelly and fuckin' hot. And from what his recollection of the surroundings, the waitress and the food, the last and only time he was at the Devlin Dining Room, it wouldn't be any different. He got into his daggiest pair of jeans, most worn out running shoes and an old blue T-shirt with ‘Kings Cross' on the front that he never wore. He tossed a sweat band made from a red T-shirt, that was so old and faded from sweat it was closer to pink, and a couple of pieces of fruit into a small overnight bag and headed for Coogee.

Devlin Place was little more than a dead end running off Coogee Bay Road between the Coogee Motel and a music shop called Guitar City about half a kilometre up from the beach. There was a Chinese restaurant next to the motel. On the opposite side of the road there were a beautician, a video shop and several other small businesses, as well as a few old semis and an equally old Spanish style block of flats. The Devlin Dining Room was part of the motel, with the main window fronting on to the street. The motel driveway ran between the restaurant and the office with the entrance to the restaurant in the driveway. Norton found a parking spot not far from the music shop, locked his car and walked down.

He paused momentarily out the front of the restaurant
and looked in the window. It was much the same as the last and only time he'd been there. Tan brickwork out the front, same as the motel, and inside was a mishmash of red and brown over well-worn brown carpet.

There were about a dozen or so tables with red tablecloths, a goldfish tank near the entrance and a few prints and cheap paintings on the walls. The menu was written up on a large blackboard next to a swing door that led into the kitchen and that was about it. Maxims de Paris it wasn't. Norton had a squint through the window at the menu which appeared to be a mixture of French provincial and home style cooking. He decided to go in the back rather than walk through the restaurant.

The back entrance to the restaurant was to the right of the motel, in a small courtyard bricked off from the motel car park, the entrance itself being a rickety flyscreen door full of holes situated next to the toilets. The door faced a brick building that was probably a storeroom of some sort and the rest of the small restaurant courtyard was full of old cartons, a couple of garbage bins, a mop and bucket and what looked like about two hundred thousand filthy, empty bottles. Some dust-caked windows in the kitchen faced this uninspiring scene and that was about it. Norton shook his head, rapped on the flyscreen door and stepped inside.

Still wearing the same jeans and T-shirt he'd had on at the hotel, Quigley was standing at a large, old wooden table in the middle of the kitchen, trimming a fillet of beef. He glanced up at Les and gave him a brief smile that was again as much a smirk as anything else.