Guns 'n' Rose Page 10

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.’

  ‘Aaarrghh rhnhtt grshlirp oorghiij,’ begged the man in the cape.

  ‘What in the fuck’s that?’ said Les.

  ‘Christ! I just hope he doesn’t see me,’ answered Jimmy.

  At the sound of their voices the man spun around in a flourish of glinting, green talisman and swirling cape. As soon as he spotted Jimmy his eyes lit up and spun round wilder than ever.

  ‘James, James, my friend. It is you. It is ordained. It is written in the stars. It is truly the prophecy. The great one has … grrnhhh arrghnnh sckrorghhn nyennnhh.’ The man went into another hail of complete gibberish, then knelt at Jimmy’s feet and kissed the back of his hand.

  ‘So what’s up, Crazy? They won’t let you in?’

  ‘Aarrrghjkt.’

  ‘And you’ve got no money.’

  ‘Zzzjghrrngh.’

  ‘Well I can’t fuckin’ help you.’

  ‘Aaarrrghnjrghnjjkkngh,’ howled the thing in the cape.

  ‘Ohh, for Christ’s sake. Here.’ Jimmy pulled out twenty dollars and gave it to the cape who immediately went into even greater raptures, bowing in front of Jimmy and kissing his fingers.

  ‘Oh, blessed one. Oh, pearl of the lotus flower. Light from ten thousand suns. Jewel of the cosmos. I will make you a jacket. I will make you a vest. I will… aarrgghhhjjkkgh ghrzzjwiijkll.’ Then he noticed Les. He stood up, walked across and started pawing at Norton’s vest. Les wasn’t quite sure what was going on, whether he was trying to pick his pocket or what, and was half thinking of putting one up his ribcage. ‘This vest. This vest. I know it. You wear a creation of the Shamash. Aarrghjklnmghj.’ He looked up at Norton. ‘You are blessed. Greatness is upon you. You walk the shining path. The universe … nnggrrhllkjhgh.’

  Norton shook his head then for some strange reason pulled a twenty out of his pocket also and handed it to the cape. ‘Will you please go away.’

  ‘Aaarrggghnjggrhtzzklnmmh.’ The cape went into even bigger raptures again. ‘I am leaving. I am leaving. Oh, efendi. Oh, chosen one. This worthless pile of rags is leaving.’

  ‘Good. That’s the best news I’ve heard all night.’

  ‘But before I go,’ the cape held up the talisman in the palm of his right hand, ‘what do you see here, my friend?’

  ‘A lump of green glass on a piece of tin can.’

  The cape shook his head adamantly. ‘No. It is the sacred stone of the Pharisee.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘And do you know what the sacred stone does?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have a fuckin’ clue,’ said Norton.

  ‘Turns me into Michael Jackson.’

  The cape turned side on, pointed the hand with the gardening glove on it up in the air and struck a pose like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, then moonwalked down the driveway, through the people and off into the night. Norton looked at him in bewilderment for a moment, then he and Jimmy walked past the doormen and through the revolving door.

  ‘What the fuck was that all about?’ Les asked Jimmy.

  ‘That’s Crazy—the Shamash. He likes a drop of Jack Daniels.’

  ‘Crazy?’ Norton shook his head. ‘Stark raving mad’d be more like it. The cunt should be wearing a fuckin’ straitjacket. Not a cape.’

  ‘He’s also the bloke that made your vest.’

  ‘What!?’ Norton stopped dead. ‘That gibbering, drunken idiot made this? Why didn’t you tell me? I’d’ve slung him another twenty bucks and got him to measure me up for another one. Where do I find him?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Les. From now on, he’ll find you.’

  They climbed the stairs to the Baron Riley Bar.

  It was nowhere near packed, but there was quite a good crowd. All the tables were taken with couples or small groups of friends, as were the stools round the bar, and between the serving area and the dance floor stood a group of men with name tags drinking mainly beer on some company account. Instead of the piano player an attractive, dark-haired girl in a black leather vest and matching skirt was seated on a stool strumming a guitar in front of a sequencer. As they walked in she was warbling ‘All I Want to Do is Have Some Fun’ and doing a pretty good job; two couples were on the dance floor and most of the tables were singing along as well. She was that good Norton started to join in himself as they crossed to the bar.

  ‘What do you want, Jimmy? I’ll get them.’

  Jimmy thought for a moment. ‘Get me a Bacardi and orange with a dash of strawberry liqueur.’

  ‘Sounds all right. I might even have one of those myself.’

  This time Les got a tall barman with a Canadian accent, along with another pleasant smile, and soon had the two drinks.

  ‘Why don’t we stand over there.’ Jimmy took his drink and pointed to an archway near the corner of the bar closest to the pool area.

  ‘Yeah, righto.’ Les followed Jimmy over and had a sip. ‘Hey, not bad, James.’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed what you were drinking earlier. It’s not quite the same. But it’s still a nice way to go.’

  ‘Gee, I drank some nice rum when I was in Jamaica.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Les related to Jimmy an anecdote or two about Jamaican rum and margaritas in Florida. Jimmy said he picked up a taste for good wine after working in a winery for a while and doing a course in it. Now it was a bit of a hobby. Beer always bloated him and if he went out he liked cocktails or light rum. They nattered about this and that while they checked out the punters and talked about the singer, who did an Oasis song, then an old Van Morrison, and took a break. Jimmy got the next two drinks and they stayed near the archway listening to a tape playing through the speakers. A couple round the end got up to go and left two empty stools. Les was about to point this out to Jimmy when he noticed a woman seated near the corner, leaning around gesturing to him. She was barely sit
ting a few metres away, so Norton started to check her out. She looked around forty with corporate-style, brown hair and a very pretty, very foxy face. A denim skirt with a long split up the side and a maroon, knitted top displayed enough flat, hard boobs and tanned arms and legs to show she was madly into aerobics. Next to her, a girl about thirty with pale blue eyes and short black hair tucked behind her ears got up to get something from her pocket. She was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt tucked into faded blue jeans and was a bit more solid than the older one with much bigger boobs. The older one gestured again. What the hell? thought Les, starting to walk over. I wonder if she’s seen Taxi Driver?

  ‘Are you talkin’ to me? Are you talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? Me? Are you talkin’ to me?’

  ‘Listen, come here,’ said Maroon Top. She took Norton by the elbow. ‘Are you and your friend gay?’

  ‘What!?’

  ‘I want to know, are you and your friend gay?’

  Les gave her a blank look. What she said was hardly worth an answer, let alone any witty kind of verbal repartee. ‘What a stupid bloody question. What would you have said if I’d have come over and asked you if you and that scrubber with you were dykes?’

  ‘Oh, well you know what I mean.’

  ‘No, I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘All right then. You’re not poofs.’

  ‘Thank you. And if you ever say that to me again, I’ll hit you with my handbag.’

  ‘Listen, why don’t you and your friend come and join us. There’s two empty stools there.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Les went back to Jimmy.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you want to come over and have a talk to these two potatoes. I don’t know them, but there’s a couple of stools there and it’s better than standing up.’

  Jimmy took a look over Norton’s shoulder. ‘Yeah, why not. I’d just as soon sit down. And if they get too punishing we can ignore them.’

  ‘What’ll we tell them?’

  ‘I don’t know. You think of something. I’m just a poor dumb abo.’

  They walked over and shuffled the stools around; Les finished up next to the older one and noticed she was drunk, but not as drunk as her girlfriend.