On a cool Friday night, with the lights dimmed and ‘Down to the Bone’ playing on the stereo, Norton had been wrestling around on his lounge for what seemed like forever trying to get into Amy Herschel’s pants. However, Amy tap-danced a little too fast for Les and the best the big Queenslander could manage between kisses was to sneak a hand under Amy’s bra, but not for long. Actually, whenever the chance arose, Les had been trying to get into Amy’s knickers since he met her in a Bondi nightspot a year ago. Amy was no oil painting and normally by now, Les would have seen the writing on the wall, done a Charlie Harper and gone politely on his way. But sitting back on Norton’s lounge wearing a tartan mini-dress, torn black stockings and an old army shirt, the untidy brunette, with several tattoos and lanky legs that wobbled round in her shoes, had certain attributes that appealed to Les. Like a tight backside, sweet, firm lips and enticing brown eyes buried under several layers of mascara. Kisses that were lipstick-coated dynamite, convincing Norton she had to weaken sooner or later. And as a perfect accompaniment to her excruciatingly sarcastic sense of humour, Amy was the lead singer in a band called the Hairy Crumbs.
Having a taste for music, Norton liked people in bands; they dressed differently, spoke differently and always brought plenty to the table. Their only fault was, the vast majority of singers and musicians Les had met imbibed copious amounts of booze and consumed vast quantities of drugs. But from Norton’s point of view, if alcoholism and substance abuse was the fuel that drove good rock’n’roll — so be it. Not that the Hairy Crumbs forte was good rock’n’roll. Les had been to a few of their gigs and although they did a fairly tight cover of Bonnie Raitt’s ‘Mighty Tight Woman’ and Lucy de Soto’s ‘Loose Cannon’, Les felt if they were singing for their supper you wouldn’t give them a paper plate and a plastic fork. And Warren, Norton’s flatmate, reckoned Amy couldn’t carry a note if it was in a backpack and churlishly nicknamed her Amy Outhouse.
But Les liked Amy and the evening came about after he bumped into her in Campbell Parade earlier in the day. He took her to dinner, then a small bar with a girl singer, before inviting Amy back to his place. Amy didn’t seem interested in any drugs on the night. But she certainly didn’t mind a drink. They hadn’t been back at Chez Norton an hour and already they’d polished off one bottle of Gentleman Jack. Now, with great gusto, ice and a little Pepsi Max, Amy was attacking the second bottle Les opened as if her life depended on it. His head starting to spin, Norton stood up, half tucked his shirt into his jeans and blinked down at Amy.
‘Amy. I got to go to the brascoe,’ he said.
Amy raised her glass. ‘Mention my name in there,’ she quipped, ‘and they’ll give you a good seat.’
‘It’s quite all right, Amy,’ Les replied quietly. ‘I don’t sit down to pee.’
‘Yeah? That’s not what I heard, Homeboy.’
Les ignored Amy and tottered off down the hallway. After soaking his face in cold water when he’d finished, Les returned to the loungeroom to find Amy had guzzled her last drink and was helping herself to another. Les sat back down alongside her, stared at his half-empty glass sitting on the coffee table then turned slowly to Amy and shook his head.
‘Honestly, Amy,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I could look another delicious in the eye.’
‘You’re not fair dinkum, are you?’ sniffed Amy. ‘Christ! What have you got for a spine, Les? A string of cocktail frankfurts?’
‘If you say so, Amy,’ Les nodded wearily.
‘That’s okay, petal,’ smiled Amy. ‘I understand.’ Amy had another good mouthful of bourbon, placed her glass on the coffee table then turned to Les, put her hand on his and stared at him for a few moments. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I have to be honest with you about something, Les.’
‘That’d be a nice change,’ replied Norton.
‘The main reason I went out with you tonight, Les, was … was because I was hoping you could do me a favour.’
‘A favour? I don’t know. I suppose so,’ shrugged Les. ‘What is it?’
Amy paused for a moment. ‘I’ve got a bloke stalking me,’ she said.
‘You’ve got a bloke stalking you?’ answered Les. ‘Christ, Amy! Can’t you just steal his white stick and give his Labrador a swift kick in the nuts?’
‘I’m telling you the truth, Les,’ pleaded Amy. ‘Remember I told you earlier, I’ve been in Germany for two weeks?’
‘Yes. Furthering your brilliant musical career.’
‘Well, I’ve only been back two days and he’s ringing me already. He’s threatening to get me at a gig on the weekend.
Les stared at Amy. ‘You’ve been back in Australia two days and you’ve got a gig already?’
‘A girl’s got to earn a dollar, Les,’ shrugged Amy. ‘Actually we’re doing two. Tomorrow night at the Duke of Cornwall in Randwick. And Sunday night at the Seaview in Clovelly. Eight-thirty till twelve.’
‘Fair enough,’ nodded Les. ‘So what do you want me to do?’ he asked.
‘Just come over and keep an eye on things. Six hours of your time. And I’ll pay you.’
‘Pay me?’
‘Yeah. Two-fifty a night. Is that okay?’
‘Five hundred bucks to listen to you and the rest of those anencephalics for six hours. It’ll cost me that much later in visits to an ear specialist.’
‘Hah-hah-hah,’ retorted Amy. ‘No, come on, Les. You said you were doing nothing this weekend.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Les. ‘Price is giving the club a refurbish so I’ve got a few days off.’ Les looked at Amy for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after you. And you don’t have to pay me.’
‘Oh you’re a sweetheart, Les.’ Amy put her arms around Norton’s neck and kissed his lips. ‘And you know,’ she smiled, batting her false eyelashes at him. ‘It’s only a matter of time before I’m yours.’
‘Yes. I can imagine,’ Les smiled back. ‘So … what exactly …?’
Amy picked up her drink. ‘Be at the Duke tomorrow night at eight-thirty. Same at the Seaview on Sunday. And keep an eye on things. But mainly let people know you’re there. You’re on the case.’
‘Okay,’ nodded Les. ‘Too easy.’ Norton looked tiredly at his watch. ‘Listen Amy,’ he said, ‘I hate to be a lemon. But I’m going to have to send you home. I’m a shot duck.’
‘Send me home? Oh lovely,’ gestured Amy. ‘You couldn’t get a root. So now you toss me in a taxi like an old sack of onions. You could at least be a gentleman and drive me home.’
‘Drive you home? Amy, I’ve drunk that much bourbon tonight I’ll be lucky if I can drive my car before next week. Besides,’ he added, ‘I’m sure you’ve been tossed out of nicer homes than this, by better-looking blokes than me.’
Amy glanced around the loungeroom then looked at Les. ‘Yeah,’ she nodded. ‘You’re right. I have.’
Norton left Amy to finish her drink while he rang for a taxi. As luck would have it, one was close by and before long it was out the front beeping its horn. Les helped Amy up from the lounge then walked her out the front and opened the back door of the taxi.
‘Okay, Amy,’ he said, slipping her the cab fare. ‘If I don’t hear from you tomorrow or whatever, I’ll see you at the Duke around eight-thirty.’
‘Thanks, Les,’ said Amy, kissing him again before getting into the taxi. ‘Now you know why I’ve been crazy about you all this time.’ She smiled up from the back seat as Les closed the door and blew him a kiss.
‘Goodnight, Amy,’ smiled Les, then waved as the taxi did a U-turn up Cox Avenue and disappeared into the night.
Back inside, Les folded his jeans and changed into a clean T-shirt, then cleaned his teeth before switching off the lights and climbing into bed. Well, that’s a funny one, he mused, scrunching his head into the pillows. One minute Amy’s telling me she’s already doing gigs because ‘a girl’s got to earn a dollar’, yet she can afford to pay me five hundred bucks to hold her hand for two nights. Les shook his head in the darkness. Fair dinkum. I’m in the wrong game. I should buy myself an electric guitar. Even if I played the thing with a pair of chopsticks I couldn’t sound any worse than the Hairy Crumbs. Les yawned, scrunched his head into the pillows once more and seconds later the big Queenslander was blissfully snoring away in a deep, drunken slumber.
Saturday dawned cloudy and a little cool with a moderate sou’easter blowing in off the ocean. Norton rose around eight, seedy and dehydrated with a noticeable headache that promised to get more noticeable as the morning wore on. He shuffled down to the bathroom and, when he’d finished, dragged his sorry behind into the kitchen. He didn’t bother to switch the kettle on. Instead Les breakfasted on two Digesics and half a bottle of sparkling mineral water. After a horrendous belch that made his head spin and his eyes water, Les knew there was only one way to get rid of all the toxins and other nasties from the night before: a jog and a swim. He changed into his Speedos, cargoes and a grey tracksuit top and got a towel from the bathroom. He put his cap and sunglasses on and was about to leave the house when the phone rang and the answering machine cut in. It was Warren ringing from Brisbane where he was shooting a TV commercial.
‘Hey Boofhead. Are you there? Pick up the phone, you big goose.’
‘Yes, I’m here,’ replied Les, gingerly holding the phone to his ear. ‘What do you want, you pain in the arse.’
‘Hello. She’s home,’ replied Warren. ‘Listen, Ugly, did a courier drop a parcel off there for me?’
‘He did. Yesterday morning. It’s on your bed.’
‘Beauty! It’s got two camera lenses in it. They’re worth a motza.’
‘Well, you can stop worrying,’ said Les. ‘Everything’s sweet.’
‘Unreal,’ replied Warren.
‘So how’s things in BrisVegas, Woz?’ asked Les.
‘All right. Hot. But the shoot’s going okay. And I should be home early Monday morning. What’s doing with you?’
‘I just had a night on the piss.’ Les told Warren about his evening with Amy and how she was having trouble with a stalker. So he was going to keep an eye on her.
‘I don’t believe it!’ said Warren. ‘You’re still trying to get into Outhouse’s Reg Grundies. And now you’re playing Kevin Costner to Amy’s Whitney Houston.’
‘Something like that, Woz,’ agreed Les.
‘But who’d want to stalk Outhouse anyway?’ asked Warren. ‘She’s a beast.’
‘Warren,’ intoned Les, ‘you’re talking about an attractive young lady that happens to be very close to my heart, who is also an extremely talented singer and entertainer.’
‘Yeah. For a baboon with false eyelashes. I’d rather lie on a bed of nails and listen to the best of Engelbert Humperdinck than cop two nights of Amy and her bunch of music criminals.’
‘Whatever turns you on, Woz.’
There was a brief pause at the end of the line. ‘Hey Les. I got to go. I’ll see you when I get back.’
‘Righto mate. See you then.’
Les hung up the receiver and stared at the phone. Now where was I? Yeah, right. A run and a swim. Then maybe a bite to eat and a couple of litres of coffee. Les placed his towel and water in a small overnight bag, locked the house and walked down to the beach.
There wasn’t that big a crowd down the end of Bondi, just the usual hardcore waxheads milking what they could from a sloppy one-metre swell and the regular punters walking or jogging along the promenade. Les returned the smiles of some people he knew, wrapped an old sweat rag round his head, then walked down to the water’s edge and took off.
The tide was out so it was easy going on wet sand. The Digesics cut in after the first lap so the last five laps were almost a breeze. Les plunged into the surf and wallowed around. Noticing a few blue bottles drifting in with the southerly, Les cut his short, had a cold shower and got changed. Feeling almost human again and his appetite returning with a vengeance, Les cut across to Hall Street and walked up to his favourite coffee shop, a restaurant-cum-bookshop across the road from the Hakoah Club called Gabrielle and Angie’s.
Les exchanged pleasantries with the owner and staff as he stepped inside and was about to sit down when a woman’s voice called out to him. It was Lisa, a brunette hostess from the club, seated with her brown-haired boyfriend Nick, a successful carpenter and builder.
‘Hey, Les. Over here.’
Les walked over to their table. ‘Hello Lisa. G’day Nick,’ he smiled. ‘What’s doing?’
‘We just got here,’ said Nick. ‘Why don’t you join us?’
‘Okay. That’d be good.’ Les sat down, ordered a double shot latte with smoked salmon and scrambled eggs on Turkish and eased back in his seat.
‘You been for a swim?’ asked Lisa.
‘Yeah. And a run on the beach,’ replied Les. ‘I got on the drink last night and decided to sweat it out of me.’
‘Did it work?’ asked Nick.
‘Sort of,’ replied Les. ‘I’m starting to feel half alive.’ His coffee arrived promptly. Les stirred some raw sugar into it and took a healthy sip. ‘Oh yeah,’ he winked. ‘That sure works.’
Lisa gave Les a cheeky grin. ‘We were walking past Gulu’s last night. You didn’t happen to be in there looking very romantic with Amy Herschel, did you?’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘That’s why I’m so crook today. Christ!’ he said with a shudder. ‘You reckon she doesn’t fancy the pen and ink.’
‘What did she tell you about her trip to Holland?’ asked Nick.
‘Holland?’ queried Les.
‘Yeah. I got her to bring me back a couple of Van Gogh prints for my office. They’re getting framed now.’
‘She told me she went to Germany,’ said Les.
Lisa shook her head. ‘No. Holland.’
‘Maybe she slipped across the border or got her countries mixed up,’ suggested Nick.
‘You know Amy,’ smiled Lisa. ‘She’s not what you’d call a very solid citizen.’
Les looked at Lisa for a moment. ‘No. No she’s not,’ he replied.
Their food arrived and they all began eating. When they’d finished they ordered another round of coffees and Les had a mixed berry muffin. They talked and joked about different things and it turned out a very enjoyable breakfast with Les feeling a hundred per cent compared to when he first greeted the day. Finally, Nick had to inspect a building site somewhere and Lisa wanted to go shopping. Les split the bill with Nick, said goodbye and continued on up Hall Street towards home, stopping on the way for the papers.
Inside, Les dropped his bag and the papers on the kitchen table, poured himself a glass of mineral water and stared out the kitchen window as he drank it. Holland? Well, why did Amy tell me she was in Germany? Then again, like Lisa said, Amy doesn’t do much part-time work at Cape Canaveral. And the poor skinny wreck was that full of delicious last night, smiled Les, she’d probably say anything. Ain’t no nothing to lose no sleep over I don’t suppose. Norton finished his water and left the glass in the sink.
After leaving his wet gear in the laundry, Les hung his towel on the line and changed into a clean white T-shirt over the same cargoes. Returning to the kitchen, he turned on the radio to get a laugh with George and Paul on 2UE while he went through the papers. By the time the two larrikins had finished their show, Les had finished the papers. He took them out the front and dropped them in the recycling bin, noticing it had clouded over and the wind had got colder, threatening rain. Which suited Norton. He had nothing planned and there was a heap of things to do round the house, starting with the mess in his room.
With the stereo pumping out his favourite CDs, Les spent the day putsing round Chez Norton, cleaning and sorting out bills. He rang Billy Dunne, his offsider at the club, and told him what he was up to and where he’d be if he wanted him. Billy wished Les good luck and was really and truly sorry he couldn’t join him. But he was taking his wife and kids to the pictures. Les thanked Billy for his kind if not sarcastic thoughts. Late in the day Les strolled down to the Hakoah Club and had a Hungarian goulash and before he knew it, he was back home, shaved, and changed into a pair of jeans, a blue T-shirt and a black leather bomber jacket. After one last detail, Les got some ear plugs from the bathroom, then walked out to his faithful old Holden Berlina and headed for Randwick.
The Duke of Cornwall wasn’t a regular haunt of Norton’s, but he’d been there with Price a few times to keep an eye on his boss while he discussed certain things with certain people who were apt to get a little hostile if things didn’t go their way. It was an older style hotel with a brick and tile front, built on a hill running up from a cluster of shops in Carrington Road. Les found a parking spot outside the sub-station behind the pub and walked round the front. A door on the left led into the bar and gambling area, and another in the middle led into a hallway and bistro with a short set of steps running up to a larger dining area and a small beer garden outside. The walls were panelled and hung with old sepia photos of Coogee and Randwick. The management had cleared away several chairs and tables in the large dining area and the band was set up against the far wall, down from the glass doors opening onto the beer garden. Les stepped into the room and was surprised to find a fair crowd of young people already there, wearing some of the weirdest clothes and hairstyles Les had seen outside of Oxford Street. The Hairy Crumbs were dressed in solid black, with plenty of hair, chains and body piercing. Amy was wearing the same clothes she had had on at Norton’s place, except she had added a pair of tatty fishnet stockings and leopard-skin stiletto heeled shoes that looked four sizes too big for her. The band seemed almost ready to start and Amy was at the back helping a sour-faced roadie with a black buzz-cut pack bag weights into the kick drum. Les waited till she stood up when they were finished then walked over.
‘Hey Amy,’ called out Les. ‘What are you up to?’
Amy spun around wide-eyed. ‘Oh, Les,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’
‘Of course,’ smiled Les. ‘I said I’d be here, didn’t I?’
Amy exchanged glances with the roadie, who promptly disappeared into the crowd, then she gestured to the band. ‘You know the boys, Les.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘I met you before. How are you, fellahs?’ There was a disinterested murmur of greetings then the band went back to tuning their instruments. Les turned to Amy who wobbled over to him in her high heels. ‘So what’s doing Amy?’ Les asked. ‘Have you had any more phone calls?’
‘Yes. He’s rung twice,’ replied Amy.
‘You any idea what he looks like?’
Amy shook her head. ‘Not a clue.’
‘Well,’ shrugged Les. ‘I’ll just have to wait for him to show his hand. But don’t worry. I won’t be far away.’
‘Come over here, Les.’ Amy led Les down the back of the room to a table with a reserved sign on it alongside the doors to the beer garden. ‘This is for the band,’ she said. ‘You can sit here if you want. But remember, make your presence felt.’
‘Make my presence felt.’ Les indicated the exotically dressed crowd sucking on their drinks. ‘I don’t think anyone’s going to miss a square like me amongst these Bolsheviks.’
Amy turned to the band. ‘I have to go, Les.’
‘Okay. And don’t worry about a thing.’
Les pulled out a chair, when he noticed two bouncers wearing black security uniforms come up the steps and was pleasantly surprised to find he knew the taller one, Luke, who’d sometimes train with Les and Billy down the surf club.
‘Hey Luke,’ Les called out. ‘How are you going?’
‘Les. Hey. What are you doing here?’
‘Ohh mate. Don’t ask.’
Luke introduced his solid offsider Wayne and Les told them why he was at the hotel. Luke turned to the band and screwed his face up.
‘That’s got a stalker?’ he said.
‘Yep,’ nodded Les. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘He must live in a bat cave or just got out of the nick,’ said Wayne.
Luke absently glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better get back out the front,’ he said. ‘There’s a few starting to get here. If you need a hand, Les, just give us a yell.’
‘Okay. Thanks. I will.’
Well that’s good, smiled Les, once he sat down. At least I know one friendly face in the joint. Les was thinking of getting a mineral water when the roadie sat down at the table and stared straight ahead.
‘How’s things?’ asked Les. The roadie gave a brief nod of his head. ‘You been with the band long?’ The roadie gave a brief shake of his head. ‘You like their music?’ The roadie gave a slight shrug. ‘Yeah. Well, bad luck you couldn’t be here tonight,’ said Les. The roadie ignored him, stood up and walked over to talk to some girl in a red jacket.
Les went to the bar and got a bottle of mineral water then returned to his seat. He’d just sat down again when the band leapt furiously into Deep Purple’s ‘Smoke on the Water’ and started beating it to death. After that they murdered everything from the Headless Chickens’ ‘Cruise Control’, to Poison’s ‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn’, to some indecipherable songs they’d written themselves. Les put his ear plugs in, sipped his mineral water and checked out the punters for a possible stalker. He had a couple of walks around then sat down and slipped his ear plugs out just as the band finished and joined him at the table with Amy choosing to sit next to him.
‘By golly,’ said Les, raising his drink. ‘You’re sounding good.’
‘You think so Les?’ beamed Amy.
‘Reckon. Especially that version you do of “Most People I Know Think That I’m Crazy”. I can just see Thorpie now, that big grin on his face, smiling down from heaven on you.’ Rolling over in his grave’d be more like it, the poor bastard.
‘Thanks Les.’ While the band got up to go to the bar, Amy whipped a hip flask from her skirt and tipped a decent slug down her throat. ‘Oh yeah,’ she growled. ‘Got to keep the old pipes lubricated.’
‘You sure do,’ winked Les. ‘Well, Amy, I haven’t seen anyone even resembling a stalker in here tonight.’
‘Just keep looking,’ said Amy, having another tipple. ‘He’ll turn up.’
‘I’m on it, momma. Don’t worry,’ Les assured her.
The band returned with a tray of drinks and sat down, handing Amy a middy of what looked like bourbon and Coke. Then they all started talking quietly amongst themselves. Les left them to it, preferring to keep an eye on the punters and act the concerned bodyguard. It didn’t seem long before the drummer pointed to his watch and they finished their drinks and returned to their instruments. Les put his earplugs back in just as they tore into Def Leppard’s ‘Love Bites’. They finished that and started on some other song, when the band stopped completely, leaving a deafening silence in the room.
‘Ohh. Sorry about that gang,’ announced Amy. ‘But Vance is having trouble with his kick drum. We’ll have to replace it. Won’t be long.’
A moment later, two well-dressed men entered from the beer garden carrying a kick drum above their heads packed with bag weights. They quickly replaced the old one and carried it out, exchanging brief stony glances with Norton as they did so. Hang on, thought Les, as the door to the beer garden closed, I know those two blokes. They’re part of that crew from the Stingray Bar in Macleay Street. Les watched them leave, then put it out of his mind as the band started murdering the same song again. Not long after, the roadie came up the steps and started wandering around the room, stopping here and there to talk to the punters.
Les absently watched him moving around when something caught his eye. Being observant from working at the Kelly Club, Les noticed the roadie was dealing. He’d stop, a little plastic bag would get palmed into the punter’s pocket and the roadie would palm the money into his pocket. It was quick and smooth like a good pickpocket in action. Norton was impressed. Well, well, well, he smiled. Our friendly roadie’s a small businessman on the side. How nice.
The night ground on, the band had another break and before long they were getting up for their last bracket. Les was about to put his ear plugs in when a tall pale man wearing eye make-up and black lipstick appeared at the top of the steps. He was wearing a black top hat, a long black overcoat and huge black boots with thick heavy soles. He started towards the band and beneath his right sleeve Les noticed a glint of silver. It was a razor. Uh-oh, thought Les, getting to his feet. Here’s our nutter. Now how am I going to take this ratbag down without getting slashed?
Quickly, Les moved through the punters, stepped up behind the bloke in the long coat and clamped his right arm around his throat in a reverse headlock. Les turned, pushed his back against the nutter, then bent at the waist and flung him over his head. The nutter crashed down face-first amongst the punters, his top hat flying off into the crowd as the razor slipped out of his hand. Several young girls screamed as Les shoved his right foot into the bloke’s shoulder joint and pulled his arm back. Next thing Amy was thumping Les on the back as the two bouncers came up the steps to see what was going on.
‘What are you doing, Les?’ shrieked Amy. ‘Are you crazy or something?’
‘I’ve got him,’ said Les. ‘This is your stalker. Look. He’s carrying a razor.’
‘Stalker?’ howled Amy. ‘This is Jerome. He plays in a Goth band called Blood Transfusion, he was about to have a sit-in. That’s his harmonica. You bonehead.’
‘His what?’ Les asked blankly.
‘Oh my God,’ wailed Amy. ‘I don’t believe it.’
Les let go of Jerome and helped him to his feet. He retrieved the Goth’s top hat, dusted it and handed it to him along with his harmonica. ‘Gee, I’m sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘I got you mixed up with someone else. Are you all right?’
Jerome glared indignantly at Norton. ‘Hey, what’s your problem, man?’ he demanded. ‘Are you off your head or something? You nearly killed me, you dipstick.’
‘Yeah I know,’ apologised Les. ‘I’m sorry mate. Amy’ll explain everything to you.’
‘Are you okay, Jerome?’ fussed Amy. ‘Can you still play?’
‘Yeah. I guess so,’ replied Jerome. ‘But keep this loser away from me.’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ muttered Les. Feeling like a complete dropkick, and knowing every eye in the room was on him, Les shuffled back to his table and sat down. ‘It’s all right, Luke,’ he said to the bouncers. ‘I just made a bit of a blue. That’s all.’
‘No problem, Les,’ replied Luke, as the two bouncers returned to the door.
Thankfully the night finally ended with the band and Jerome slaughtering Offspring’s ‘Gone Away’. A few whistles and a ripple of applause sounded through the room. The band and Jerome stayed where they were as Amy walked over to Norton, who had got to his feet.
‘I’m really sorry about your friend, Amy,’ said Les. ‘But when I saw that outfit and the shiny metal in his hand …’
‘That’s all right, Les,’ replied Amy. ‘You’re not really hip to the rock scene. And you were only doing what I asked you to.’
‘Will you be okay now? Because I’d like to get out of here. I feel like an idiot.’
‘Yes. The boys will keep an eye on things.’
‘Great,’ said Les.
‘So you’ll be at the Seaview tomorrow night?’ asked Amy.
‘Yes. I’ll be there. Goodnight, Amy. I’ll see you then.’ Les snuck out of the hotel and hurried around to his car.
Oh brother, thought Les when he closed the door at Chez Norton behind him. How good is it to be home? He changed into a pair of shorts and a sweat shirt, made himself a mug of Ovaltine and plonked his backside down in the loungeroom. Well wasn’t that a lot of fun, he mused, as he sipped his hot drink in silence. Three and half hours of GBH to my earholes, a miserable roadie dealing dope and I almost break some poor, inoffensive Goth’s neck. Then to rub salt into my wounds, I’m told I’m not hip to the rock scene. Well, if what those Philistines played tonight was hip to the rock scene, I’m Boy George. Norton shook his head. And to be a good bloke, I knocked back five hundred bucks. You sure don’t have to have webbed feet and honk to be a goose, do you?
Les yawned, finished his Ovaltine and took his mug out to the kitchen, cleaned his teeth, switched off the lights and got into bed. Oh well, he thought, as he pushed his head into the pillows, at least there was one bright spot on the night. It kept me off the guzzle, and my head and liver will thank me for it in the morning. Les wriggled around for a while before finally falling asleep.
Sunday dawned the same as the previous day, only with more chance of rain. Les got up late and grainy; some street noise had woken him through the night and he had trouble getting back to sleep. He went to the bathroom, then changed into a pair of shorts and a sweat shirt and ambled down to get the papers.
Back home he cooked a big breakfast and read the papers listening to George and Paul again. When they signed off and he’d finished the papers, Les sat in the loungeroom and pondered what to do. He wouldn’t have minded catching up with a few mates and having a cool one. But he’d promised Amy he’d be at the hotel to keep an eye on things. Les drummed his fingers on the lounge chair. The shed in the backyard. It always needed a clean-out and hadn’t had one for a while. He changed into some old clothes and spent the afternoon tidying the shed and getting rid of rubbish. By the time Les finished, got some takeaway Thai and had a shower, he found himself in the same clothes as the night before, except for a clean blue T-shirt. Oh well, he sighed, as he locked the front door. Here we go again. Another night of electrically amplified torture. Norton got into his car and headed for Clovelly.
Les didn’t mind the Seaview and had been there a number of times. It was a very popular modernised hotel whose main claims to fame were its huge beefburgers and a first grade rugby league player who got videoed there porking some model in the Gents. Les drove down Covelly Road to where it changed before the hotel, turned left and circled around the car park above Clovelly then drove back and fluked a parking spot outside a row of shops opposite the hotel. He locked the car and walked across to the neatly landscaped entrance, noticing a row of shiny Harley Davidsons parked out the front.
Sunday was always a happening night at the Seaview and Les stepped inside to find the front bar filled with punters standing around the sandstone floor or seated along the wood-panelled walls. He took a short set of stairs on the right and came out at a crowded dining area surrounded by more dining areas and a beer garden with views of the ocean. There was a bar on the left and seated opposite were the burly owners of the motor bikes out the front, all wearing their colours — the Taipans Motor Cycle Club Australia. They weren’t doing much, just drinking and joking amongst themselves. But they still managed to look big and mean. Les left them and trotted up another set of stairs to a large lounge and entertainment area full of people.
There was a bar on the left and no shortage of chairs and tables on either side of the stairs, and further down on the left a row of bay windows commanded a great view of the ocean. Near a row of windows above the street, the band was set up on a low stage against the wall opposite the bar. They were all in their severest black and Amy was wearing a white Cramps T-shirt tucked into a tight-fitting pair of black leather jeans that made her shapely backside look even shapelier. Again she was helping the roadie pack the kick drum with weights while the band stood around quietly tuning their instruments. And again Les waited till Amy and the roadie had finished before he walked over.
The band members gave Les a very cursory nod while the roadie totally ignored him. Amy saw him and wobbled across in a pair of bright red, stiletto-heeled shoes.
‘Hello, Les,’ she greeted him. ‘How are you?’
‘Not bad, thanks Amy,’ smiled Les. ‘Have you heard any more from your friendly neighbourhood stalker?’
‘Yes. He rang me this morning. He said if he doesn’t get me tonight, I can stop worrying. He’s leaving the country.’
‘He said what?’ asked Les. ‘Why would he say that?’
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Amy. ‘He just did.’
‘Okay. Fair enough.’
‘Now listen, Les,’ Amy instructed, ‘I don’t want you half-killing any of my friends tonight. You got that?’
‘Yes, Amy,’ nodded Les. ‘I’ll be extremely prudent about who I throttle tonight. All right?’
‘Good.’
‘Have we got a table?’ asked Les.
Amy shook her head. ‘No. No room. So you may as well just hang near the top of the stairs.’
‘All right. Hang by the stairs it is.’
‘And don’t forget …’
‘Yes, I know,’ replied Les. ‘Make myself obnoxious while I’m at it.’
‘Exactly.’
Amy went back and joined the rest of the band. The roadie exited stage right and there was a short pause before the drummer clicked one-two-three-four on his drumsticks and the band tore into The Clash’s ‘Rock the Casbah’, sounding like they were all racing each other to see who could finish first. Les winced and squeezed his eyes tight. Oh no, he suddenly realised, I forgot my ear plugs. I’m a dead man listening.
After that the band proceeded to hack to death every song they laid their hands on, with Amy out front awkwardly wriggling her leather-clad behind in time to the music. But the crowd didn’t seem to mind. The worse the Crumbs played the more they sang along and boogied around. There was a small dance floor in front of the stage and soon it was packed with punters getting into some very serious fun.
Les got a mineral water and mainly hung at the top of the stairs, looking for who or what he didn’t really know. Now and again he’d bump into someone he did know and have a few quick words, or a few longer ones if they happened to be women. Eventually the band finished a lengthy first bracket and went to the bar. While the boys carried their drinks back to the stage, Amy took hers over to Les.
‘Seen anybody or anything a bit dodgy yet?’ she asked.
Les shook his head. ‘Nope. Nothing. But that’s all right, Amy, because I don’t know what I’m looking for anyway.’
‘Well, just keeping looking.’
‘No worries. I’ve got both eyes firmly on the ground.’
Amy walked back to the stage and started talking to the roadie and the drummer, leaving Les propped at the top of the stairs like a bottle of sour milk. This is ridiculous, summed up Les. I haven’t got a clue what I’m looking for. The only way I’m going to find this goose is to wait for him to attack Amy and hope I can get there before he does too much damage. I may as well just watch Amy out the corner of my eye and perv on the potatoes. Cripes, there’s plenty here. And some good sorts too. Les patted the inside pocket of his leather jacket and smiled when he felt his biro. You never know. A handsome little devil like me. I might even finish up with a phone number.
The band finished their break and meandered back on stage where they picked up their instruments. The drummer counted out four, Amy gripped the microphone like she was trying to choke it and they attacked Midnight Oil’s ‘I Don’t Want to Be the One’. After that they assassinated song after song while the crowd, all half drunk by now, roared along. The band was halfway through giving Blondie’s ‘Call Me’ an absolute thrashing when once again they stopped dead in their tracks. All eyes turned to the stage as Amy smiled out over the crowd.
‘Ohh, sorry about that, folks,’ she announced. ‘But Vance is having a little trouble with his kick drum. We’re going to have to replace it. Won’t be long.’
Norton’s face twisted into a sneer. What the …? They just got a new kick drum last night. Over the crowd, Les watched Amy go across to the drummer, when the roadie walked up to her carrying a mobile phone. He handed it to Amy, who nodded a few words into the phone then returned it to the roadie and stepped back to the microphone.
‘It’s okay folks,’ she said. ‘Vance has got the kick drum going for the time being. We’ll change it later.’ Amy turned to the band. ‘Okay boys. One-two …’
On the count of two, they started flogging ‘Call Me’ again. Les shook his head and went to the bar for another mineral water. He finished it and put the empty glass on a nearby table, just as the band ended their bracket. He was going to wait for Amy when a deep rumbling coming from outside caught his attention. Les eased his way through the crowd over to the windows opposite and peered down into the street. More Harley Davidsons had pulled up across the road, a centimetre either side of his Berlina and the riders were backing their bikes up against the gutter. They were all wearing their colours and two were wearing long black dusters. Hello, thought Les, looks like the rest of the gang’s arrived for a late drink. And while they’re here, they’ve given me no room to get out. Terrific. One of the riders got off his bike and turned around. Across the back of his jacket in bold lettering it read LUCIFER’S LEPRECHAUNS. Norton’s eyes widened. Hang on, from what I know, the Leprechauns and the Taipans aren’t all that related. Goodness. This could be rather interesting. Les walked back to the stairs, passing Amy who was talking to a blonde girl near the bar.
Keeping well to one side of the stairs for a better view, Les peered down to where the Taipans were seated to see if anything eventuated. It didn’t take long. As soon as the Leprechauns got to the top of the stairs below and spotted the Taipans, there was a brief exchange of filthy looks and it was on. The Leprechauns charged at the Taipans and both groups of beefy-bull necked men started punching, kicking and bashing into each other with stools, bottles and anything else they could get their massive hands on.
Women were screaming and racing for the exits followed closely by the men who wanted nothing to do with the fight, not even a number of big, first-grade footballers amongst the crowd. Les stared down the stairs, fascinated. The big Queenslander had seen and been in a lot of brawls in his time, but this had to be the most vicious, brutal fight he’d ever witnessed.
One particularly tall Leprechaun with long greying hair, a goatee beard and a duster, was firing out straight lefts and rights like pistons and connecting every time. A red-headed Taipan with a ginger beard came up behind the tall man and smashed a bottle over the back of his head. It didn’t even faze him. Eyes blazing with hatred, he turned around, glared at the other bikie in some kind of recognition and produced a sawn-off shotgun from under his duster. The Taipan blanched and, noticing all the exits were blocked, took off up the stairs with the tall Leprechaun in close pursuit. He burst past Les and through the people, knocking over anybody in his way before stopping for a brief moment on the empty dance floor to get his bearings. The tall bikie appeared at the top of the stairs, took aim and fired two shots at the fleeing Taipan, missing him and hitting the drum kit, blowing it to pieces. Next thing, thousands of little white pills showered all over the upstairs lounge and around Les. Les scooped a few up and looked at them curiously for a moment before putting them in his pocket. From out of nowhere, an absolutely ropeable Amy loomed up in front of the bikie wearing the duster.
‘What are doing? You dopey big clown,’ she shrieked at him amidst a string of obscenities. ‘I had twenty thousand Es in that kick drum. And now they’re all gone. You gangling great boofheaded imbecile.’
The tall Leprechaun glared at Amy then hit her under the chin with the butt of his shotgun, knocking her out cold. He raised the shotgun by the barrel to give her another one when Les reached over and grabbed the tall bikie that hard by the scruff of his duster, he tumbled backwards down the stairs landing on his spine with his feet on the bottom step. Judging the distance, Les leapt off the top step and landed heels first on the bikie’s stomach, squashing all the air out of him. Les stepped off the winded Leprechaun and quickly took the bottom stairs to the front bar, then pushed his way through the terrified crowd milling around out the front and hurried across to his car. In seconds Les was behind the wheel revving the engine. He dropped it into reverse, and without looking gunned the motor knocking over the Harleys behind him. He shoved the old Berlina into drive, gunned it again and this time hit the Harley in front of him. It smashed into the one next to it sending the rest crashing down like huge metal dominoes. The last one landed just as a horrendous clap of thunder rumbled in off the ocean and several streaks of lightning lit up the sky. Les ignored the ominous weather and floored his old Holden all the way back to Bondi.
When he pulled up out the front of Chez Norton, the skies had opened and it was bucketing down rain. Still managing to get half soaked, Les quickly locked the car and raced over to the front door. Once he was inside Les got a towel from the bathroom, dried his hair and changed into his old blue tracksuit, putting one of the little white pills in his pocket. He poured himself a large stiff delicious then plonked his backside down in the loungeroom.
‘Holy mother of the Lord,’ he said, after an incredulous mouthful of bourbon. ‘What the hell just happened? Was that for real?’
With the rain hammering down on the roof, Les sat quietly sipping his delicious and having a think. A good think. He took the pill out of his pocket and examined it. It was about the same size as a Valium, with a tiny smiley face stamped on one side. Les rolled it round between his fingers while a mirthless smile formed on his own face.
‘Yes. That was for real, all right,’ he nodded bitterly. ‘My old mate Amy. What a little sweetheart.’
Les finished his delicious and thought about another. However, the first one had put an edge on all the graininess from last night’s lack of sleep. No, forget it, yawned Les. It’s a good night for sleeping. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. He put his empty glass in the kitchen sink, gave his teeth a quick brush, then switched off the lights and climbed into bed. With the rain’s constant drumming on the roof above, Les was soon asleep.
When Les rose the next morning, the rain wasn’t pouring down like the night before, but it was still heavy enough to deter him from walking down to the paper shop. Instead, he left his old tracksuit on, sorted himself out in the bathroom then ambled into the kitchen and made a plunger of good strong coffee. Les was sitting in the kitchen enjoying a mug and about to turn the radio on when the front door opened and closed, Warren’s bedroom door opened, a suitcase landed on the bed and a moment or two later, Warren was standing in the doorway holding the paper and wearing a crumpled black shirt hanging out over a pair of designer jeans.
‘Hello Knackers,’ he grinned. ‘What’s doing, baby?’
‘Not a great deal, Warren,’ Les replied evenly. ‘Not a great deal at all.’
‘Here, Ugly. I brought you a present.’
Warren placed the Daily Telegraph on the kitchen table. Headlined across the front page was. THE NIGHT IT RAINED ECSTASY. Beneath that was a photo of all the overturned motor bikes and beneath that it read: Bikie gangs in drug shootout at popular Eastern Suburbs hotel. Les glanced at the front page then turned to the next one and gave it a closer perusal.
‘It says here,’ noticed Les, ‘singer Amy Herschel was admitted to the Prince of Wales Hospital with a broken jaw.’
‘Which will make absolutely no difference to her singing,’ commented Warren. ‘If anything, it’ll improve it. So come on, Les, what happened?’
‘What happened?’ replied Norton. ‘I got used, Warren.’
‘Used?’
‘Yeah. There was no stalker. Amy was setting up a drug deal.’
‘A drug deal?’
‘That’s right. Remember on the phone I said she’d been in Germany.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Warren.
‘Apparently she’d been to Holland. And apparently when she came back, managed to sneak a big swag of Ebenezer through customs.’
‘You’re kidding?’ said Warren. ‘How many?’
Les shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. But from what I saw, and something I overheard, I’d reckon at least forty thousand tabs.’
‘Holy moley!’ Warren looked directly at Les. ‘You didn’t happen to grab a few, did you?’
‘Yeah,’ said Les, handing Warren the tablet that was still sitting in his tracksuit pocket. ‘About a dozen. They’re in my room.’
‘Fair dinkum?’ Warren stared wide-eyed at the little pill with the smiley face on it. ‘So what are you going to do with them?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Les. ‘They’re all yours, if you want them.’
‘Unreal. Thanks mate.’
‘It’s your brain, Woz.’
‘What there is left,’ smiled Warren.
Les shook his head. ‘The whole band was in on the scam,’ he continued. ‘Amy and the roadie packed all the pills inside the kick drum. Then halfway through the gig Amy’d say the kick drum was stuffed, and they’d swap it for another one with the buyers. I recognised the team that swapped kick drums at the Duke of Cornwall. It sounds over the top, but what cop would think of looking for dope in a kick drum? It beats meeting in motels and running around with suitcases in the back of rental cars.’
‘Yeah, right,’ agreed Warren.
‘The thing is,’ said Les, tapping the paper. ‘Amy’s pretty much got away with it. She cleaned up at the Duke. And although she did her dough at the Seaview, the papers and the cops have laid everything on the bikies. Amy’s walked.’
‘Yeah, right,’ agreed Warren. ‘So where did you come into it?’
‘Where did I come into it?’ replied Les. ‘I came into it … because, because …’
‘Because,’ interjected Warren, ‘because Amy needed some moronic thug and gangster on the hang. One with heavy connections to a lot of other very heavy thugs and gangsters. So if the buyers saw you there, they’d say, “Oh dear. That’s Les Norton. Goodness. We’d better do the right thing here. Or we might all get a punch up a froat guv.”’
Les took a weary sip of coffee. ‘No putting nothing over you, Woz, is there?’
‘Never,’ smiled Norton’s flatmate. ‘The thing is, Les,’ Warren said seriously, ‘be nice if Amy had’ve got busted with you there.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Les. ‘If I didn’t get ten years in the cooler for conspiracy to supply, it’d still cost me thousands in legal fees. And the mud sticks.’
Warren shook his head. ‘And to think you did all this just for the chance to get into some skinny singer’s knickers.’
‘Yep. You’ve nailed me again, Woz,’ said Les, putting his mug down. ‘Les Norton. Complete and utter forty-five carat goose.’
Warren liked Les. They’d been good mates for a long time and he owed him a lot. But it was still nice to put the knife into Les now and again. Especially when he’d just made a fool of himself.
‘So Les,’ said Warren, trying his best to hide the smirk on his face. ‘Considering everything that happened, how would you say your relationship with the beautiful Ms Outhouse is, after all this’
‘My relationship with the beautiful Ms Outhouse?’ replied Les. ‘Shithouse, Warren. If you ask me.’