Guns 'n' Rose Read online

  Robert G. Barrett was raised in Bondi where he has worked mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career as a writer.

  Also by Robert G. Barrett in Pan

  YOU WOULDN’T BE DEAD FOR QUIDS THE REAL THING THE BOYS FROM BINJIWUNYAWUNYA THE GODSON BETWEEN THE DEVLIN AND THE DEEP BLUE SEAS DAVO’S LITTLE SOMETHING WHITE SHOES, WHITE LINES AND BLACKIE AND DE FUN DON’T DONE MELE KALIKIMAKA MR WALKER THE DAY OF THE GECKO RIDER ON THE STORM AND OTHER BITS AND BARRETT

  ROBERT G.

  BARRETT

  Guns

  ’n’ Rosé

  This is a work of fiction and all characters in this book are a creation of the author’s imagination.

  First published 1996 in Pan by Pan Macmillan

  Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Reprinted 1997, 2002, 2005, 2008

  Copyright © Psycho Possum Productions 1996

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Barrett, Robert G.

  Guns ’n’ rose.

  ISBN 9780330358514

  I. Title.

  A823.3

  Typeset in ll/13.5pt Times by Post Typesetters, Brisbane Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  This book is dedicated to the Australian Olympic rowing team at Atlanta 1996. The eights. Psycho Possum Productions had the pleasure of helping to sponsor them. They didn’t win gold, but we’re more than proud of them. And we’d do it again anytime.

  A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Firstly, I have to thank everyone for buying the books and making them the success they are. You’ve been more than kind. And the possum lady thanks you for buying the T-shirts too; she can now afford to feed her two kids and she’s bought herself some teeth as well. Also, thanks for all the letters. I’m getting heaps of them and they’re all great; some are even better than others. I’m doing my best to answer all of them, but at the moment I’ve been flat out, so if a reply is a bit late in coming, I’m sorry, but you should get one eventually.

  Secondly, people are always asking what’s going on with Les Norton on the screen. Well, I’ve done it. I have finally sold my soul to the devil. The devil in this case being a company in Sydney called Radio Superhighway owned by a person called John Singleton. Radio Super-highway has bought the rights off me to make a Les Norton TV series. When I say ‘bought’, obtained a hire-purchase would be a better description. I don’t get a zac until when, and if, the series goes to air. So don’t stop buying the books and T-shirts in the meantime. I have to eat and the possum lady has to feed her kids and she still needs more teeth. I also have to stress that, along with selling my soul to the devil, I also had to sell him a thing called creative control, which means they can virtually do what they like with my books. So if you turn on the TV and Carlotta comes out playing Les Norton and Joh Bjelke-Petersen shows up playing Price Galese: don’t blame me. However, I’m sure John Singleton and Radio Superhighway want this to be a success just as much as I and my readers do, so I don’t think they’ll murder it too much. Anyway, they’ve only obtained the TV rights from me. I can still make a Les Norton movie — which I will do one day and I can assure you it will be done properly. So that’s what’s going on.

  Finally, the possum lady said that along with the TEAM NORTON caps in either black or green with gold lettering, there’s another two T-shirts available — GUNS ’N’ ROSE AND DAVO’S LITTLE SOMETHING. Still only $32 for a T-shirt and $28 for a cap. Just send a cheque, along with your size (M, L, XL), choice of T-shirt or cap and address it to Psycho Possum Productions, PO Box 3348, Tamarama, Sydney NSW, 2026. The possum lady also said if people come up and ask you where you got your T-shirt or cap, don’t tell them. Talk to them if you want to, but don’t tell them anything. Okay? As for me, I’ll see you in the next book. Thanks again.

  Robert G. Barrett Terrigal, 1996

  Despite all his ill-gotten gains and everything he had going for him, Les Norton was by no means the happiest man in the world at the moment. By no means. Certainly he wasn’t short of a dollar and he owned his house at Bondi with stuff planted all over the place that he could sell if he wanted to and he had a fairly steady job amongst friends that paid him a substantial income for what little work he did a few nights a week, not counting the fringe benefits. Not a bad start in life. Yet on the other hand, Les couldn’t seem to take a trick and sometimes wondered just where life was leading him.

  After the Bondi Baths caper, Norton split from Side Valve Susie’s unit, and so did Susie; along with the good-looking lawyer who handled all the business in Melbourne. Which effectively ended any ideas he had for a bit of steady porking with an old friend he fancied just round the corner. Goodbye, Les, and thanks for your help. And since then Norton’s love life had been more or less batting zero. Around this time he loaned a bloke he knew and trusted a thousand dollars. The bloke was all right, except he had a heart attack and died at forty-one; and in the surf at Coogee of all places. So he got buried along with Norton’s thousand bucks. Then Les’ car was stolen. The old, white Ford ute he never washed. Some young hoons nicked it up the Cross one night and used it in a ram-raid on an appliance store in Kensington, getting away all right and leaving what was left of Norton’s old ute down a back alley in Alexandria.

  Norton was pissed off, but he wasn’t worried all that much as the ute was fast becoming a heap of shit and he was almost glad to get rid of it. But because Les was a bit slack in getting off his arse and reporting it, the police traced the car and took him in for questioning. Les had a solid alibi and could prove there was no way he had anything to do with it. But Les was still a bit edgy after the Bondi Baths caper. Although they appeared to have got away with it, it still unnerved him the whole time he was being questioned in Maroubra police station. He kept thinking any minute some detective was going to say, ‘Oh, and by the way, Les, just exactly where were you on Friday night the suchand-such of the so-and-so?’ Which was just one of several things unnerving Norton at the present time.

  All the old members of the Icebergs were now drinking at the Bondi Diggers, where Les used to enjoy a cool one now and again. Every time he’d arrive there always seemed to be a bunch of them hanging around, clutching their schooners and staring sad-faced out the windows across Bondi Bay to the charred rubble of where their clubhouse used to be and shaking their heads and moaning about how it was the end of an era along with all the trophies and mementos they’d gathered over the years and how Bondi just wasn’t the same without the baths. Les had to agree with them. It was a bummer all right. A dead-set, crying bloody shame. And sometimes, with a few beers under his belt, Les would have liked to have told them the truth and got it all off his chest. And they weren’t the only ones complaining. It seemed everywhere Les went he’d bump into people and the first thing they seemed to say was, ‘Bondi just doesn’t seem the same without the baths’. Like several mothers he knew down at North Bondi with their children, lamenting the fact that they couldn’t take their children to the big pool where they could learn to swim properly.

  On top of that, Bondi seemed to be turning into a bigger shitfight than ever. Gangs of hoons coming in from the suburbs, fighting with the police while they rioted a
nd did their best to wreck everything along Campbell Parade. Hordes of soapy backpackers trashing the entire beach while they got pissed out of their brains, leaving it to the council to clean up and the poor, long-suffering local lifesavers to drag their smelly European or pommy bodies out of the surf when they went for a drunken swim and started to drown. A lot of locals reckoned, instead of pulling them out of the water when they started drowning, the lifesavers should put a hose on them and finish the job off. Though this gave Norton the shits as much as it got on his nerves. And talking about backpackers—there was Warren.

  Warren’s mental condition seemed to have deteriorated since Isola left and it wasn’t from a broken heart. She left a day earlier than she intended, along with what money Warren had left lying around, and his VISA card. Isola might have only had a backpack, but somehow she managed to stuff three pairs of R. M. Williams jeans, several bottles of Estee Lauder perfume, four large bottles of Jack Daniels and a number of Ken Done outfits into it before she brushed the trip to Bali and jetted straight back to Holland; after flushing Warren’s VISA card down the can at Kingsford Smith Airport. And there was SFA Warren could do about it; Isola could sign his name better than Warren could. As Norton lamented to Warren in the kitchen one morning just after he got his car stolen, shit certainly happens, doesn’t it? Now Warren was getting his rocks off in a strange way; growing pot in the backyard, getting stoned, then going up to Bondi Junction where the nice ladies from the church sold secondhand clothes, magazines and other bric-a-brac for charity in the plaza near the ANZ bank and trying to freak the poor old dears out of their minds. Somehow Warren had got hold of a box of pornographic magazines that were supposed to have been pulped. He’d take a few up the plaza, slip them in amongst the National Geographies, New Idea, House and Garden or whatever, then stand back with a telephoto-lens camera and take shots of the good, God-fearing Christian ladies when either they or a customer would come across WILD LESBIAN LEATHER LICK FEST. YOUNG FOXES WITH SHAVED BOXES. SCHOOL GIRL BONDAGE GANG BANG. WILHELMINA’S WILD WET WHIPS.

  Norton thought this a bit sick on Warren’s part, though he had to admit his flatmate did have a flair for photography; some of his candid snaps of the old dears’ faces were unbelievable. However, Les declined Warren’s offer of a hot one and then joining him one Saturday. Les, however, didn’t mind a hot one courtesy of Warren down the backyard with the music going on his days off. It was laid back and secluded and seemed better than going down the beach and bumping into old Icebergs and other people all parroting the same line—‘Bondi just isn’t the same without the baths’. But staying home stoned only seemed to add a sense of paranoia to Norton’s nagging guilt complex and increasing nervousness, as if he was trapped in his own home and mind with all that other rattle still swirling around outside like some invisible dust storm. There was only one answer—Norton needed a holiday. Only for about a week or so and not too far away, but where no one knew him. Just sitting around some hotel or resort, eating good food, drinking piss, reading, doing bugger all. Maybe go for a swim or something. The ute was gone. But it wouldn’t cost much to hire an el cheapo one and just hit the road. Port Stephens sounded all right. Or maybe Mollymook or Ulladulla. Les had never been to the South Coast.

  And that’s exactly what Les was thinking as he stood in front of his bedroom mirror, wearing his best Levi’s, a brown collarless shirt and brown grunge boots, on a balmy Tuesday night in early autumn getting ready for a shift at the Kelly Club. I’ll tell Price after work tonight I’m pissing off for a week, he thought. Get someone else. And if you don’t like the idea. Stiff shit!

  Warren hadn’t come home from the advertising agency yet and Billy had started work an hour earlier, so he missed a lift with his good mate and off-sider. But the taxi he’d rung for would be out the front in a couple of minutes. He gave himself a last detail then got a brown cotton jacket out of his wardrobe and picked up a novel he was reading just as a pair of headlights washed across the front windows and a horn tooted out in the street. Les tossed his jacket over his shoulder and locked the front door behind him. It’s funny, he thought as the driver did a U-turn back up Cox Avenue towards Lamrock after Les told him where they were going, going away on your own’s okay, but it’d be nice to have a mate along with you. Someone to have a mag with, crack a few jokes, get some laughs going. Talk things over. Maybe get things off your chest. Norton chuckled to himself. Yeah, that’s it, a bit of male bonding. The taxi stopped for the lights at O’Brien and Old South Head Road and a tall, sinewy girl with scraggly brown hair, wearing jeans and a black top that made her tits looks like two choice, ripe honeydew melons, crossed with the lights and sauntered into the store on the O’Brien Street corner. Norton’s eyes never left her for a moment. Yeah, so much for bloody male bonding. I think I’d rather take that with me. For about six months.

  Billy was inside the door at the club dressed much like Norton and all smiles when he opened it after Les knocked.

  ‘Hello, Billy. How’s things, mate?’

  ‘Not too bad, Les,’ replied Billy. ‘Can’t complain. What about yourself?’

  ‘Oh, pretty good. Sort of.’

  ‘Pretty good, sort of?’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les, as Billy closed the door. ‘I’ll tell you about it later. I’ll just duck up and let Don Corleone and the rest of them know I’m here.’

  ‘Righto. I won’t be going far.’

  There were about fifty or so punters spread around the green felt tables playing mainly Euchre or German Whist for hundreds of dollars a point on credit; no money changed hands. Although the place was unofficially a club, Price now charged everyone that came in five dollars. He paid tax on this, which made for a legal income and the money over that more than paid for Les’ and Billy’s wages with a bonus now and again. For their five dollars the punters, as well as being able to play cards in peace, were able to eat fresh, tasty sandwiches and drink tea or coffee till it was coming out their ears. Billy reckoned it was worth five dollars just for the smoked salmon sandwiches alone. So between this and the points he creamed off the punters, plus his own winnings and the winnings from his string of champion racehorses Price was making just as much money as ever and doing it cosier and that close to legitimately it didn’t make any difference. For the dapper, silver-haired, ex-casino owner, it was a nice little vibe all round. He was standing at the back wearing an immaculate grey suit and green tie talking to George Brennan, who was wearing a Bermuda jacket and dark tie. They both stopped their conversation and smiled when they saw Norton approaching.

  ‘Hello, Price. George. How’s things?’

  ‘Good,’ answered George. ‘Couldn’t be creamier.’

  ‘Sensaish,’ said Price, feinting a left rip to Norton’s ribs. ‘If I was any fitter I’d be dangerous. What about you, Les, me old mate?’

  ‘Ohh, all right. Sort of.’

  ‘All right, sort of?’ said Price.

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘I’ll tell you about it after work.’

  ‘You know what you need?’ said George.

  ‘Yeah, what, George?’ replied Norton, expecting some half-arsed remark.

  ‘A holiday.’

  ‘A what?’ Les gave George a double blink.

  ‘A holiday. You need a break.’

  ‘George is right,’ nodded Price. ‘You’ve been looking a bit jaded lately, old fellah. A few days off would do you the world of good.’

  ‘It would?’ Norton couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Yeah. A hundred per cent.’ Price gave Les a friendly slap on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, we’ll talk about it after we knock off tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Les nodded slowly. ‘We’ll talk about it then.’ Slightly puzzled and at the same time pleasantly surprised at how this all fell into place so easily, Norton left Price and George to whatever it was they were talking about, had a quick look round the club then joined Billy inside the front door.

  ‘So how’s things?’ said Billy
, glancing up from the latest Frederick Forsyth paperback he was reading.

  ‘Terrific,’ answered Les. ‘Good. Even better than I thought.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I was gonna tell Price I wanted to take a few days off. But before I got a chance, he told me I looked like I needed a holiday and to take a break.’

  ‘Sounds pretty good to me,’ replied Billy, going back to his novel and turning the page.

  ‘Yeah, pretty good,’ agreed Les. He took a copy of The Hand that Signed the Paper from his jacket, thumbed to the page he was reading, then looked back up in the direction of the office, his eyes slightly narrowed. ‘Maybe a bit too good.’

  Billy disregarded Norton’s last comment, went back to his book and the night went accordingly. Members and their guests came and went, having a punt or a feed or whatever. Eddie arrived late in his black leather jacket and jeans, had a talk and a joke for a while, then went upstairs and stayed there. Before they knew it the night was over; the last punter was gone, along with the staff, the place was tidied up waiting for the cleaners and they were settled quietly in Price’s office having a drink. Price was at his desk, Les in front to his right, George next to him with Eddie and Billy on the other side. Les and Billy were drinking Eumundi Lager, George a Stolly and cranberry juice, Eddie a Light and Price had a tall Glenfiddich and soda.

  Price raised his glass. ‘Well, here’s cheers, boys. All the best.’

  ‘Yeah, not a bad night,’ said Billy.

  ‘Yep, it was all right,’ agreed Les.

  They all took a sip of their respective drinks and settled a little further into their seats. Before anyone got too comfortable, Price turned to George.

  ‘Now, George, what was that we were saying to Les earlier?’

  ‘About how we reckoned the big sheila needed a holiday.’ George gave Les a brief once-up-and-down. ‘Yeah, he sure does. Have a look at him—he’s a fucked unit.’