The Naked Drinking Club (20 page)

I could have said many things, but I decided at that point that the guy had been through enough so I simply said, ‘Fair play.’

Which made him back off.

‘Get out of my sight and off this street.’

‘Sure. That I can agree to.’ And that felt like the best I was going to get in terms of a deal. I walked down the drive and into the passenger seat of the Kingswood.

‘You all right?’ Scotty put his hand on my thigh and patted it.

‘Just let’s get out of here, Scotty, I need a drink.’

The wheels spun, causing a screeching as we tore down the street. I turned around to see Bruce close the door, and then slumped down in the seat, glad of Scotty’s hand on me.

Scotty and I stood at the bar waiting to be served. I kept shaking my head in disbelief at what had just happened.

‘Close shave, eh, mate?’ Scotty made a blowing-out-steam noise and pushed his baseball hat back.

‘Just really lucky, I suppose. Fuck, really lucky. I mean it was such a gamble to say that stuff about the woman he was with, you know?’

‘It’s all a gamble, mate.’ He laughed madly, patting me on the back. ‘It’s all a fucking gamble.’

We drank a cold beer each but never sat down, knowing well that nothing had been sold tonight, and that I’d probably
have
to go back out and try again. Even if Scotty had suggested that we call it a day I don’t think I could have, for I was getting to the stage where every time we went selling, I didn’t want to go back to the city unless I had sold at least one. It had become such a game, such a challenge and such a performance that I loved it, despite the risks.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

IT WAS DARK
and beautiful again. Things always felt better after dusk. The evening was a cloak that I wore well, and with it came drinks and loose talk, which helped a world full of strangers feel easy.

Scotty dropped me off in a cul-de-sac in a different suburb altogether, which meant he’d have to race back to get the others, then back to get me again.

‘You’ll just have to get lucky in the one house, mate, all you got time for.’

I nodded from the pavement.

‘Give it all you’ve got.’ He sped off in another unnecessary emergency-like fashion.

I glanced over the houses and chose the wealthiest-looking one, which was in the far corner of the cul-de-sac of seven houses. Its driveway was on a steep slope, surrounded by a white wall. The house was gated, and on the gates was an intercom. All these signs were telling me no, and that even if I did gain entry, the inside would almost definitely contain real works of art on its walls. I pressed my head through the gates, peering at the house. Guarding the front door were two enormous ceramic lions, a strange regal sight for Sydney. It was seven thirty. I rang the intercom, causing the
Doctor Zhivago
theme to resound along the drive.

‘Tiff, for fuck’s sake, get your ass in here, you’re late,’ said a man’s voice that had smoked a million cigarettes.

‘It’s not Tiff,’ I said, but was cut off. I felt the ground vibrate and the gate mechanism kick in. They opened slowly. I walked up the driveway towards the house, unsure of how to
approach
the voice that answered. I leant my folder against the wall of the house and waited at the front door, until I realised it was slightly ajar.

‘Come in, come in, come in, come in,’ sang the same voice as before. As I pushed the door open, I could hear guitar-tuning coming from inside.

‘Hello there,’ I said, as friendly as possible to a suntanned middle-aged man, in perhaps his fifties, sitting at a wooden table.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he said, really pissed off.

‘I tried to tell you at the gates I wasn’t who you thought I was, but you answered too quickly so I thought I’d—’

‘Are you a friend of Tiff’s? He’s fucking late, and a date’s a date.’ He had half-moon glasses on. He peered over them at me but continued tuning, completely unfazed by my arrival. I laughed at the sight of him. I liked him. He was odd and I knew immediately that I had another lunatic drunkard on my hands.

‘You know how to tune a guitar?’

‘You know, the basics, but I’m no expert.’

He wore smart shorts and looked like he’d just showered and shaved; his black hair was still wet and combed over to one side, and I could smell his aftershave. He was a never-got-over-the-sixties type, beads round his neck, a leather bracelet of some kind. He’d cut himself shaving and blood seeped through a tiny piece of toilet paper stuck to his cheek. He was totally engrossed in the tuning and let me stand there, as I looked round at what had to be the most salubrious house I’d been in so far.

‘What time is it?’

‘Just after seven thirty.’ I looked at my watch despite the enormous clock on the wall above the fireplace. He reached a satisfactory place with his tuning and started nodding and running his tongue over his top lip.

‘Good, good, good. OK, what’s going on?’

‘My name’s Kerry. I’m basically showing my artwork around some of the houses in your neighbourhood. By the way, this is the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen in my life. I love it.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yeah, it’s gorgeous.’

‘It’s the wife’s, I’m a mere mortal.’ He examined a dead cigar in an ashtray on the table, dusted off the ash and lit it.

‘Can I ask something?’

‘Sure can.’

‘Who’s Tiff?’

‘Tiff’s a mate, and he’s let me down badly, got a set to run through. Look at the bloody time.’ He worked on his cigar until it was up and running. I looked around some more, embarrassed to move from the same spot I’d been standing in since I’d entered. The place was cool and tiled, and what wasn’t tiled seemed to be wood. It looked Spanish and stylish.

‘Can you sing?’

I laughed.

‘I’m serious, can you sing?’

‘I can hold a tune when I’ve had a drink.’

‘Well, I’d better get you a drink, then.’

‘What’s your name?’ I put out my hand.

‘Fritz.’ He shook it, his grip was tight.

‘Good name, Fritz.’

‘What are you doing? Refresh my memory.’

‘You know, trying to show off my paintings.’ I added the ‘you know’ due to Fritz’s extremely relaxed manner.

‘Right, right, so you’re not anything to do with Tiff?’ He went back to the guitar and played a few chords. I laughed at his mentioning Tiff again.

‘No, sorry, I told you I just fell upon your house as part of my attempts to show my work around.’

He wasn’t listening; his head was down again, his eyes squinting with concentration. In my head I willed him to make my drink.

‘There are people arriving later, we have to rehearse.’

I should have left him to it of course, but it was just all so appealing, and once again the urgency to sell temporarily gave way to the pursuit of strangers and their intriguing lives.

‘OK, let’s get us a drink.’ He put his guitar back on its stand and stood up.

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Oh, you’re not getting away without having to help me out here. I’m in a spot due to that fucking clown. Jesus, no discipline.’ He walked towards another room.

‘I’ll have what you’re having, please,’ I called after him.

‘Sit down, sit down, sit down,’ he muttered before he disappeared into the kitchen.

I thought about setting out some paintings around the lounge for his return, but decided against it. Instead I sank down into the most luxurious white sofa and looked at the décor.

I could hear Fritz preparing my drink, the ice hitting the bottom of a glass.

‘Where you from, Fritz?’ I asked, as he entered carrying two pale green drinks in huge thick tumblers.

‘Beatles.’

‘What?’

‘Everybody knows a bloody Beatles’ number, right?’

I sipped my drink; it was a new drink to me, intensely sweet. ‘Yeah, that’s true.’

‘Chains.’ His face became animated.

I nearly spat out my drink, trying to suppress laughter; the guy was a grade-A lunatic.

‘Sorry?’

‘Chains.’ He gulped from his tumbler then picked up the guitar.

‘This is nice, what is it?’ I said, moving my ice around.

‘Caipirinha and vodka. We could do the “Chains” harmony.’

‘When are these guests arriving, then?’

‘
Chains, my baby’s got me locked up in chains
.’ He began belting it out. ‘
And they ain’t the kind, that you can see ee ee eey
, this is your bit.’ He gestured towards me with his forehead. I wiped the drink from the table that I’d let dribble from my mouth when I was laughing. ‘You do the harmony, right?’

‘I see.’

He started banging the guitar in between strumming it. ‘
Wow wow these chains of a luuhuvve gotta hold on me he
.’ He pointed up with his finger. ‘That’s when I go down, you see, and you go up.’

‘Fuck’s sake, Fritz, what do you want me to—’

‘From the top.’ He started again. I felt like I had no choice. Besides, I knew the song.

‘
Chains
,’ we both began, me taking the high road, him taking the low one. At the end he was ecstatic, jumping up punching the air.

‘Wow, baby, we got ourselves an opening number.’

‘What are we opening?’

‘OK, OK, let me look at my list.’ He brought out a piece of paper from his back pocket. I could see lists of songs, some scored out.

‘Hey, hang on. I’m not doing all these – not unless you buy a painting.’

‘What?’ He reviewed his set list, making notes with a pen.

‘I am trying to earn my living here, Fritz, you know?’

‘I’m going to try Tiff.’ Completely ignoring my agenda, he went over to the phone and dialled his friend. ‘Just ringing and ringing.’ He looked over at me, shaking his head.

I shrugged, then finished my drink. I figured I would sell him a painting without even getting one out of my bag, and then I’d do what he wanted in the way of entertainment. This was the best situation I had encountered since I began the job, and I had a very strong feeling that it was about to get even better.

‘OK, here’s the score,’ he said still holding the phone. ‘The wife and I are having a few guests over, in about an hour. Bob is a big shot, OK, blah blah, so I want this to be right. Understand?’

‘Yep. Where’s your wife then?’

‘Exactly.’

Finally he put down the phone. ‘I hope that idiot is on his way to the gig.’

‘What gig?’

‘THIS GIG, LOVE! This one.’

‘OK, Fritz, I’ll cut a deal with you here.’ I thought he’d like me saying cut, I was talking his language.

‘I’m listening, but we haven’t got long, we need to rehearse. Fuck poor old Tiff, he just lost his place.’

Now I knew for sure that Fritz had lost his place a long time ago. I wasn’t even sure he had a wife; this could be just
an
average night in alone for some poor old deluded hippie with more money than sense, who had taken far too many drugs a long time ago.

I would have put Fritz around Mac’s age; in fact, they would have hit it off big time, and could have enjoyed each other’s completely different strands of conversation. Fritz had jet-black hair swept back, he was very brown and looked quite Mediterranean; his body was weak, not the build of anyone who had ever worked, and his hands were long and thin like an older woman’s.

‘OK, Fritz, please can I speak with you quickly?’ I stood up and he sat down, strumming the guitar again. ‘I am here to sell paintings, it’s my artwork and selling them is my job, OK?’

‘OK, OK.’ He finished off his drink then looked at me, for what felt like the first time.

‘So I’ll help you out and do the gig with you but I need you to buy a painting, otherwise I’ll let myself and some other people down. So you can have a look and buy one, then I’ll rehearse with you, but not until then, and if you don’t want to, that’s fine, but I’ll have to head off.’

‘Fuck.’ He shook his head and blew out, like it was a really big problem. ‘How much?’

‘Hundred bucks to you.’

‘Oookayeeh.’ I laughed again, which he didn’t ever respond to.

‘OK, I’ll look through and you fix us a drink – it’s through there.’

I could not believe how relaxed he was about a stranger coming into his house. This was the thing I was beginning to understand and love about Australia; the rich people in the big houses were very different from the ones back home. They seemed less affected by what they had become. If I were to go back to Scotland and knock on the door of a huge house in Morningside, they probably wouldn’t have even answered it, let alone allow me to fix us both a drink within my first half-hour of being there. I looked over at Fritz thumbing through my folder muttering to himself, then headed into the kitchen.

‘Lime-sugar-mix in fridge, and vodka in the freezer compartment, yeah?’ He called as I went.

‘Okayee.’ I mimicked Fritz.

The kitchen was huge with a massive solid wood table in the middle. It opened through a glass screen to a lit-up lush garden, with a giant hammock attached to two trees. Through the garden was a path that finished at the edge of a built-up platform area made from strips of wood.

I found the vodka in the freezer; it was Russian or Polish, probably good stuff, as I didn’t recognise the brand. I fixed us two generous drinks and closed the fridge. As I was stirring them, my eye caught a framed photograph on the wall. It was Fritz with a woman about the same age as him on a boat, with Sydney harbour in the background. The woman wore huge hoop earrings and seemed familiar to me. I took a sip from a drink that could have been Fritz’s or mine because I’d mixed the glasses up accidentally, and stared at the picture trying to figure her out. I could have sold her a painting – I’d met so many people by now – but she felt like more than that.

Back in the lounge Fritz looked pleased with himself, and seemed to have slowed down slightly from his earlier mania. He sat on the sofa lighting up a big new cigar. Leaning against my portfolio was a painting turned away from us.

‘So, Fritz, how you doing? Got a painting?’ I was being very cheeky, but it really didn’t matter.

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Thanks. Which one is it?’ I could see cash on the table.