Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (29 page)

‘
Your man ain't diddly squat
.'

‘
He ain't got money, but boy he's really got a lot
.'

The Heathen Harlots belted into a scorching version of Robert Gordon's ‘Red Hot'. And when Franulka ran her tongue around the mike and sang, ‘
He ain't got money, but boy he's really got a lot
', nobody in the audience needed to be told twice what she was referring to.

They attacked that song, literally tearing it to shreds as they bounced all over the stage. The crowd went wild. In seconds there wasn't a foot not tapping, a head not shaking or a backside not wiggling. Cars pulled up and windows opened, as Aquila Street turned into a mass of singing, dancing people.

His eyes bulging out like two oranges, Dapto turned to his camera crew. ‘Not fucking good enough,' was all he managed to say.

After that the girls slipped straight into Steve Hoy's ‘Flick Through The Pages' before the applause and cheering had a chance to die down, with Isla somehow belting out an even bigger backbeat than the original. They moved, they swished across the stage shaking their pert backsides and wiggling their tits at the audience. Franulka stepped to the front, threw her guitar to one side and did a ripping high kick. There was an audible gasp from the men in the crowd as those purple and
pink knickers flashed in the light and they got a glimpse of the most perfectly sensational ted imaginable. There was only one word for it and the way Franulka threw it up: magnificent. It was that good, several men went down on their knees in homage and if there had been any Druids in the crowd they would have slaughtered a goat to it. From then on it was just gut-wrenching, get down, sock-it-to-me-baby-and-roll-me-over-and-give-it-to-me-one-more-time-big-daddy rock 'n' roll. Not only were there four glamours on stage — the Heathen Harlots knew how to play music. And seeing Dapto filming they were convinced he was some film producer from the States, so they were giving it heaps and making every post a winner.

They did Romeo Void's ‘In The Dark' and ‘Never Say Never', Hunters And Collectors'‘Looking For Love', Eddie Cochran's ‘Skinny Jim', John Hiatt's ‘Tennessee Plates', James Reyne's ‘Harvest Moon', and Skyhooks' ‘You Just Like Me 'Cause I'm Good in Bed'. They did a couple of their own but mainly covers. And every one raunchy enough to make a boy scout push an old lady in front of a train and steal her purse.

The crowd had seen nothing like it and neither had Dapto. ‘Just keep rolling,' he yelled at his camera crew. ‘I'm going back to the car to get more film!' He forced his way through the crowd that had now filled Aquila Street and were dancing like dervishes. Like the song said, it was the party to end all parties. Turn of the century.

While the crowd in Aquila Street was singing, dancing and having the time of their lives, the man responsible and paying for it wasn't having a great deal of fun at all. His cup of happiness far from running over was more like a very shallow saucer full of misery. He was almost choking from the heat and cigarette fumes, his hands were still stinging from cleaning out the freezers and he was sick of pretending to not notice the fifteen or so punters that had come to the back door for their
deals of whatever. The uneasiness in the pit of Norton's stomach was increasing by the half-hour. He knew the party would be in full swing by now, and he knew that soon it would be ending very abruptly, and he was beginning to think it might be better if he was up there to keep an eye on things. But instead, he was stuck in this pit of a restaurant. The only slight variation to the night so far was that the cat and the dog had come back — they hadn't been around the previous night and Les was sure they must have died from food poisoning.

Quigley fed them on the floor as usual. The dog had left earlier but the cat kept hanging around, getting under Norton's feet as he tried to work and rubbing itself against his leg in an effort to cadge more food. Norton, his temper a little on the short side tonight, finally kicked its red arse out the door. The cat then sat at the door peering at Les through the hole in the flyscreen like he was a rapist and a mass murderer. The cat finally psyched Norton out and, full of remorse, he got some meat scraps and a few chicken bones and put them just outside the door. Les toiled on, managing to keep switched off and conceal the turmoil inside him. He was so worried about the old block of flats that he almost forgot about Layton until he bowled in about twenty past ten.

Tonight Quigley's mate was decked out in his Saturday night, all black, kill 'em gear; black shirt, black trousers, black belt, red socks and scuffed, unpolished brown shoes. It wasn't hard to tell where the profits from their dealing was going because, like his mate Quigley, Layton's eyes were red and spinning around in his head like two bubbles in a piss pot. As usual he ignored Les, said hello to Quigley then did a Joe Cool in front of the two pissed waitresses for a while before settling down next to the owner. About five minutes later Les got told to take the garbage down the back; when he got back he assumed the resupplying had taken place so he continued working around the sink. The two waitresses were in the corner throwing more booze down
their throats. Quigley was involved in something he was cooking and couldn't talk so Layton must have thought this was as good a time as any to start on Norton the boofhead, Queensland kitchen hand.

‘You're still here, eh Les,' he cackled, adding his annoying laugh.

Norton clenched his teeth and stared down into the sink, muttering a barely audible ‘mmhh'. He was telling himself to be cool, but somehow Les could feel Layton's opening remark had caused the dam holding back his emotions to start to crumble.

‘I thought for sure you'd be up the Cross with all your poofter mates tonight,' said Layton.

Norton took in a couple of deep breaths and slowly began to count back. 10... 9... 8... 1... The good karma goes in. The bad karma goes out.

‘But I suppose you'll go straight up after work... then they'll all be straight up you.' Layton almost went into a high-pitched giggling fit as if this last remark was hilarious.

Norton shook his hands over the sink then walked across to the back shelf and dried them on a tea towel. As he did, one of the waitresses knocked an eggbeater onto the floor. She had her hands full and Les automatically bent down to pick it up. He'd just bent over when he felt something being jammed in his backside. Almost in disbelief Les stood up and slowly turned around. Layton was standing there, holding a carrot and laughing.

‘How did that feel, Les?' he roared. ‘Like a big cock going right up your arse?'

That was enough for Norton; something in the pit of his stomach went off like a grenade. He threw the eggbeater onto the table and snatched the carrot out of Layton's hand.

‘No,' he hissed venomously. ‘More like a big one going right down your fuckin' throat.'

Les grabbed Layton by the collar of his shirt with his left hand and jammed the carrot into his wide open
mouth, and kept jamming till it was almost halfway down Layton's throat. Layton's eyes bulged as he spluttered and choked. Quigley stopped what he was doing; the two waitresses gave a little gasp.

‘You greasy, fuckin' piece of shit,' snarled the enraged Norton. He ground the carrot further into Layton's mouth then spun him around and kicked him straight up the arse in the direction of the back door. It wasn't a karate kick, it wasn't a kung fu kick, nor was it a tae-kwon-do kick either. It was just a good old-fashioned kick right up the arse like your father used to do, but with a lot more weight behind it. Layton zoomed across the floor, and straight out the door, wrenching the flyscreen completely off its hinges, before he crashed into the wall behind in a mess of buckled and broken wire mesh and a screeching, startled red cat.

The girls screamed and Quigley dropped what he was doing as Norton, his fists clenched with rage, strode to the back door ready to decapitate Layton. He tore the flyscreen off Layton, flung it to one side, grabbed him by the shirt and pulled back a massive right fist.

The big-mouthed, tough-guy dope dealer threw his hands over his head and screamed out to Quigley, ‘Bob! Quick, ring the cops.'

Norton blinked at Layton and hesitated for a moment. Then he heard a voice behind him.

‘Leave him alone, Les, or 111 call the police.'

Norton blinked again and turned around. Quigley was standing in the doorway, the two startled waitresses behind him.

‘You'll
whaf!
' said Les, almost unable to believe what he was hearing.

‘You heard. I'll ring the cops and have you up for assault. The girls saw what happened.' Quigley's voice was shaking.

Despite his anger Norton suddenly let go of Layton and laughed. He stood up and looked at Quigley. ‘Are you fair dinkum?'

‘My oath I am,' answered Quigley.

Norton walked across to Quigley and shoved him back inside the restaurant straight through the two waitresses. ‘You're gonna call the cops are you? All right, shithead. Do that. The phone's over in the comer. And while they're here we'll show them this.'

Norton strode past Quigley over to the dope cupboard. He didn't just open it — he ripped one of the doors off its hinges and flung it across the kitchen. The replenished dope deals were sitting in their plastic container. Norton tore the lid off and there had to be around thirty there, bags and foils, at roughly $100 each. He strode back over to the ashen-faced Quigley and shoved the container in his face.

‘And what do you call this... Robert? Your thirty different herbs and spices?' Norton laughed contemptuously. ‘You'll call the police? You fuckin' dope-dealing cunt. I ought to break your fuckin' neck.' Quigley seemed to pale even more at the look on Norton's face. Then Norton suddenly smiled diabolically. ‘But seeing they're only spices, why don't we spice things up around here? What have we got there? About thirty?' Norton walked over to the stove and tipped the lot into the demi-glace bubbling away on its burner then grabbed a wooden spoon and gave it a good stir.

Quigley gasped in horror as around $3000 worth of deals disappeared amongst the slop and whatever else that was boiling away in the pot.

‘Now,' said Norton, turning to the two shocked waitresses, the horrible smile still on his face. ‘Tell them out in the dining room that the chefs special is coming up.'

The two girls didn't move and stood there with their mouths open.

‘Don't worry about it. I'll do it myself.'

Using a table cloth, Norton picked up the boiling pot of demi-glace by the handles, walked over to the swing door, kicked it open and flung the pot, the demi-glace the lot out into the dining room. There wouldn't have been half a dozen people at either end of the restaurant.
They could hardly believe their eyes as this great pot of steaming swill came sailing across the room and splattered up against the wall.

Norton then walked over to the now terrified Quigley and grabbed him by the T-shirt. ‘Now, arsehole. You're gonna put an assault charge on me are you? Well we might as well make it a good one, mightn't we?'

Norton strode back out to Layton still laying with his back against the wall. Quigley's partner in crime threw his arms in front of his face just as Norton's fist caught him above the eye, splitting it to the bone. Layton gasped with pain as the blood bubbled out and Les could hear the two waitresses scream. He brought back his fist and drove a short right straight into Mitner's face, almost disintegrating his nose in a shower of blood and splintered bone. Norton gave him another one in the mouth and Layton let out an awful scream as all his front teeth caved in and his lips burst all over his face like an overripe plum. Layton had lost interest now, but Les kicked him in the solar plexus, then dragged his blood-spattered, unconscious body to its feet and flung him out amongst the bottles and boxes in the yard. There was a crashing and tinkling of broken glass and that was the end of Layton. He just lay there and bled onto the concrete and broken glass.

Smiling fiendishly, Norton walked over to Quigley who was propped horrified in the doorway and shoved him back into the kitchen through the two waitresses behind him who had suddenly sobered up somewhat. ‘Now, prick features. How would you like to be next?'

Quigley didn't know what to do. He just stood there staring at Norton then he began to shake. Layton was laying out in the backyard looking like dogmeat, the two waitresses were ready to leg it, leaving Quigley alone in the kitchen with fourteen stone of enraged Queenslander whom he'd been treating like a piece of shit for three nights. If the dope-dealing owner had never prayed before, he certainly was now.

Les gave Quigley a bitter once up and down and felt
like spitting on him. ‘You know when I think about it, you're not even worth belting. You weak cunt. When dope dealers can go running to the cops, the place is fucked. But I'll tell you something.' Norton jabbed his finger in Quigley's chest. ‘Even if you don't, there's a fuckin' big chance I will. I know a couple of detectives that'd love to get their hands on a pair of cunts like you and your mate out the back. And don't worry about your uncle in Randwick Council. I might ring the board of health. They'll close this shit fight of a joint down in five minutes.' Quigley was still shaking. He flinched as Norton suddenly raised his hand. ‘Now, smartarse. You owe me five hours pay. Give it to me.'

Quigley swallowed hard, then fumbled into the black metal money box, grabbed fifty dollars and thrust it at Les. ‘That's near enough,' he spluttered.

Norton snatched the money and shoved it into his jeans. ‘Thanks.' He brought his fist up to give Quigley a backhander, then changed his mind. He peeled off his sweatband, tossed it in his overnight bag and headed for the door. As he reached it a young surfie appeared who Norton vaguely remembered from Thursday night because of his spiky blond hair. ‘G'day, mate,' said Norton pleasantly. ‘What do you want? Some hash or speed?'