Still Riding on the Storm Read online

  ‘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 Qu
eenslander 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.