Guns 'n' Rose (13 page)

It was the most unusual and original vest Norton had ever seen. Beautiful, soft brown leather cut in a ‘V' pattern down the front and sides, the rest was all cut from faded blue jeans. But whoever made it had cut the pockets from the fronts of the jeans to form pockets in the front of the vest and the back pockets of the jeans with the monograms on them to somehow form the back of the vest. Four shiny brass studs ran down the front, the lining was blue silk with more pockets
inside. Les had never seen anything like it in Sydney and if he had it would have cost an arm and a leg.

‘Shit! Where did you get that, Jimmy?'

‘Off a bloke up here who makes them.'

‘Christ! He must be a genius.'

Jimmy started to laugh. ‘Actually they call him Crazy. I got it off him for another bloke. But the bloke copped a faceful of SG pellets, so he won't be needing it.'

‘Was he a bikie?'

Jimmy nodded. ‘So if you want it, it's yours.'

‘If I want it! Are you fair dinkum? Fuckin' oath.'

Jimmy shrugged. ‘Okay, it's yours.'

Les took it off the hanger and tried it on. It fitted perfectly. ‘Jesus, Jimmy,' said Norton, patting the pockets. ‘This is the grouse. Thanks heaps. I don't know what to bloody say.'

‘Don't worry about it. And I might have another surprise for you. You hungry?'

‘Funny you should say that, Jimmy, but I am. Must be this country air. And all that bootscootin'.'

‘Good, 'cause I'm going to take you to the grouse.'

‘What? Even better than that last place?'

‘Maybe. We'll see. And you can get on the piss if you want to. I've got us a lift.'

Norton's eyes flashed to the fridge and the Bacardi. ‘Fair dinkum. I don't have to drive?'

‘Nope.'

Norton shook his head in disbelief. ‘Jimmy. You're my God Heart. You are my fuckin' Elvis.'

‘A bop-bop-a-lula. A lo-bam-boom. I'll see you back here in an hour.' Jimmy headed for the stairs, then stopped. ‘Hey, why don't you wear that vest tonight?'

A sheepish grin formed on Norton's face. ‘Funny you should say that, Jimmy.'

Back in his bedroom Les couldn't believe his luck. He looked at himself in the mirror and patted the front of the vest. Well I'll be buggered. What a good bloke that Jimmy is. And the fuckin' thing fits like a glove. He turned around a couple of times to have a look at the back, then took it off and hung it in front of the wardrobe ready to wear that night. Anyway, time for a tub. He got out of his sweat-soaked clothes and climbed under the shower. Yep, nothing wrong with young James, he thought, as he soaped away all the sweat and BO. Funny, though, how he always refers to Uncle George as plain George and Price as Uncle Price. Still, he's probably known him since he was a kid and it's just a sign of respect. Better than calling him Mr Galese all the time. And I call nearly all my uncles by their first name. He turned off the hot water tap and stood under the cold. Call me what you like, just don't call me late for dinner.

After he dried off, Les changed into a pair of jeans, a blue denim shirt and his Road Mocs, then slipped a tape into the stereo, not too loud, and attacked the Bacardi, vodka and OJ. Before long, each one started to taste better than the first and each track started to sound better as well. Psycho Zydeco were rattling into ‘Feet Don't Fail Now' and Les was in the kitchen about to make another drink when Jimmy walked in wearing a pair of Collezione Di Carlo jeans, a plain, white Polo Ralph Lauren T-shirt that made his skin look like it was glowing, the same trainers and the same tracksuit top with a mobile phone in the pocket.

‘So how are you feeling now? You look like you're having a good time.'

Les tinkled the little bit of ice left in his glass. ‘Unreal. You want one?'

Jimmy shook his head. ‘I doubt if we'll have time. My man should be here any minute now.' Just as Jimmy spoke there was polite knock at the door. He looked at his watch. ‘Right on time. You ready?'

Les put his glass in the sink. ‘I'll just get this grouse vest I got in my room.'

Norton went to his room then turned off the lights and the stereo and they walked to the front door. Standing under the front light was a dark-haired man with a warm smile wearing a black suit and tie.

‘Mr Rosewater?' he asked.

‘That's me,' said Jimmy.

‘This way, sir.'

Parked out the front was a huge, black stretch limousine with lights running along the side and across the back. It looked like the
Achille Lauro
without the funnels. The driver opened the back door and they piled in.

‘Nice one, Jimmy,' said Les, sinking his backside into the plush upholstery and spreading his legs around.

‘Doesn't everybody take a limo when they dine out?' replied Jimmy.

Les stared at Jimmy for a moment. Shit! You're starting to remind me of someone, he thought. He was just about to say something when the driver started the engine.

‘Peeches was it, Mr Rosewater?'

‘That's right, but I want to call into the bottle shop at Terrigal first.'

‘No problem at all, sir.' The driver slipped the limo into Drive and they cruised up to the crossroad.

‘Seeing as you chose the restaurant, Jimmy, would you like me to choose the wine?'

‘Sure, Les, and make sure they serve it in two polystyrene cups.'

They took the scenic route paste The Haven followed by a lap of the block then the driver doubleparked outside the bottle shop and opened the back door. Jimmy ran into the shop and was back about five minutes later with a bottle in a paper bag and the woman from the bottle shop after him.

‘Listen, mate,' she yelled. ‘You wouldn't know red wine from Red China, you little shit.'

‘Possibly,' replied Jimmy. ‘I know one thing, though. If you were a wine, you'd be a Russian Moselle. Full bodied, but with very little taste. Goodnight, madam.'

‘You know what you can bloody well do.'

Jimmy climbed in the back, the driver closed the door and they drove off with the woman still yelling abuse from the footpath.

‘What was that all about?' asked Les.

‘Nothing. Just a joke.'

‘You got a funny sense of humour. She looked like she wanted to kill you.'

‘Bullshit. She loves me.'

‘Yeah,' conceded Les. ‘I think they all do, don't they?' He looked in the paper bag. ‘So what are we drinking? Rosemount Estate. Balmoral Syrah. Is that any good?'

Jimmy looked at Les and shook his head without saying anything.

They did another victory lap of the block, cruised up the hill out of Terrigal, turned right on the roundabout at the bottom, then stopped just on the other side of the bridge outside a small, white-painted restaurant with a sign on the awning above saying
PEECHES
. A full glass window faced the street from behind a phone box and apart from a motel across the road, it was tucked happily away on its own and secluded from everything else.

‘I'll give you a call when we want to leave,' Jimmy said to the driver as they got out.

‘Whenever you're ready, Mr Rosewater.'

They entered through a sliding glass door where a young blonde girl greeted them and took Jimmy's wine, then sat them down at the right-hand wall next to some mirror tiles. The restaurant was quite compact with a pleasant, personal kind of ambience. White chairs and tables with crisp white tablecloths were set evenly around grey carpet and olive green walls. Above them, down lights in the brown ceiling reflected through the spinning fans and melded into the light flickering from a number of candles set in chunky wine glasses on each table. The walls were hung with lots of comically unusual framed prints. Rows of babies' bums, pigs' bums, rustic-looking old blokes in hats and glasses, bums on seats and other things, all of which seemed to suggest the owner had a pretty good sense of humour. The waitress returned with Jimmy's wine and a bottle of chilled water just as a portly man with grey hair and a happy face framed in a pair of
glasses and wearing a chef's outfit stuck his head out of an alcove at the rear of the restaurant.

‘Hello, Jimmy,' he called out. ‘How are you, mate?'

‘Pretty good, Bernie,' answered Jimmy. ‘How's yourself?'

‘All right, mate. I'll come and see you soon as I get a chance.'

‘Righto, Bernie.'

‘You know 'em all don't you, Jimmy,' smiled Norton.

‘That's me, Les. Know all of them. Trust none of them—'

‘And paddle your own canoe,' cut in Norton.

‘Hey, right on, white boy. ‘You know, I think I like you, Les. You're a man after my own heart.'

Norton was going to say something, but decided to order from the fairly extensive greenboard menu at the opposite end of the restaurant.

Whatever some of the diners at the other tables were eating, it looked good and smelled even better; Les was tempted to ask a couple what they had. Instead, he went for the Brains sauteed in bacon and herb butter and served in a basil and tomato sauce for an entree and Veal Fillet Medallions sauteed in tarragon butter and served in a mushroom veloute. Jimmy went for a Caesar salad and pork medallions seared in garlic butter in a Dijon mustard sauce. Jimmy sipped his Balmoral Syrah and Les sipped water while they nattered away about nothing in particular. Then the food arrived, along with the fresh bread rolls.

Norton's brains arrived in a bowl of creamy, rich sauce full of finely chopped herbs and diced tomato.
He took one mouthful and nearly fainted at the table it was that good. Jimmy's Caesar was huge, crisp as early morning and full of herb croutons, anchovies and bacon pieces in a thinner sauce than usual, but twenty times tastier. They bowled that over pretty smartly and next up was the veal and pork. Norton's veal was not only a taste sensation in a beautiful, brown sauce, it was that tender he could hardly tell the pieces of veal from the slices of mushroom. He had a taste of Jimmy's and it was just as tender, only the sauce slightly more tart with the perfect amount of spices; and all accompanied by fresh, steamed vegetables with a thin, cheese sauce. Les would like to have said something but he was too busy eating. Then it was all gone.

‘Well, what do you reckon, Les?' asked Jimmy.

‘What do I reckon? Jimmy, that was absolutely sensational. I don't think I've ever tasted anything like it.'

‘I told you it was something special. Listen, I'm just going to duck out and see Bernie and shout him a glass of wine. I'll be back in a few minutes. You want sweets or coffee?'

Norton shook his head. ‘No. I couldn't fit any sweets in and coffee'd only take away the taste of all that grouse food.'

‘Fair enough.'

Jimmy left Norton with nothing much to do except pay the bill, leave a substantial tip and study the greenboard menu with the idea of coming back and eating everything on it twice, maybe three times. Jimmy returned, patting his stomach.

‘So where to now?' asked Les.

‘Down Terrigal Pines for a while.'

‘Whoa. Hang on a sec there, Jimmy baby,' protested Norton. ‘I'm not going in that fuckin' disco. I was in there for ten minutes last night and that music made me burst out in boils. And all these running sores spread over my back and arms full of pus and gangrene. Thanks a lot, but no fuckin' thanks.'

Jimmy made a defensive gesture. ‘Don't worry, Les. I know exactly what you mean. No, we'll just go up the Baron Riley Bar. There's a girl sings in there tonight and she's pretty good.'

Les could taste a nice cool one already. ‘I'll certainly be in that.'

Jimmy pointed to a row of lights out in the street. ‘Anyway, the pumpkin coach is here. Let's hit the toe.'

The girl smiled and opened the front door for them, the driver smiled and closed the limo door for them and they headed for the hotel.

Compared to the previous night, Terrigal Pines Resort had come to life. The beer garden was full of people of all shapes and sizes, though mainly very young; some were queued up on the steps getting checked for ID, others were queued up waiting to get in the disco, more were either milling about or walking around out the front. The limo pulled up in the driveway and the driver got out and opened the door.

‘I'll let you know when we're ready to leave,' said Jimmy.

‘No problem at all, Mr Rosewater,' replied the driver, giving them both a polite smile.

There were a few people out the front waiting for taxis or just hanging about and as the limo pulled away
they gave Les and Jimmy a quick glance in case they might have been someone special. Les was about to walk inside when he stopped dead. Two bouncers were standing outside the revolving door half-arguing with some man or something. He was fairly well built with thick black hair and wearing a black Phantom T-shirt tucked into scruffy, blue jeans with a full-length, green velvet cape over his shoulders. On one hand was an old gardening glove with the fingers cut out, in the palm of the other glinted a large green talisman. The man had a strong jaw-line and wild, demented eyes going everywhere, but Les couldn't make out the rest of his face because it was painted green.

‘Listen, Crazy,' said one of the doormen, ‘for the last fuckin' time, you can't come in. Now will you piss off.'

The bloke screwed up his green face in anguish and waved his hands round in front of it in tiny gestures. ‘But my friend, my friend, I am the Shamash. The Shamash must get in. It is important. It is written in the stars and across the moon. Grrhgnngh nkhmmh marrggh glizznkjh.' The cape screwed his face up even more and went into this ramble of indecipherable gibberish, still making gestures with his hands that reminded Norton of some weird Arab trader haggling in a bazaar.

‘I don't care if it's written on the wall in the shithouse, Crazy,' said the other bouncer. ‘You're still not fuckin' getting in. Now piss off.'