Still Riding on the Storm Read online

  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.’

  GORGEOUS GEORGE

  You didn’t need a job at the Bureau of Meteorology to know it was going to be a very ordinary Tuesday night in Sydney. The sky was black with not a star or a glimpse of the moon to be seen, the temperature was dropping and a cool, brisk southerly blowing in off the ocean was pushing a fine mist of rain over the city, funnelling it down Kelly Street in Kings Cross. The two stocky men standing outside the Kelly Club, wearing black bomber jackets and matching trousers, were idly discussing the weather; the shorter of the two was standing by the gutter squinting up at the sky

  ‘Yes,’ said Billy Dunne, ‘we’re in for an extremely dud night, I’d say.’

  ‘You can say that again, Billy,’ agreed Les Norton. ‘Have a look. There’s not a punter in sight. There’s hardly a car on the road. There’s not even half a good sort anywhere we can perv on.’

  ‘Hey. You might have spoken a bit too soon there, old mate,’ smiled Billy, nodding to their right. ‘Look who’s coming down the road.’

  Walking out of the darkness towards them was a tall, leggy blonde and an almost as tall, leggy brunette; both wearing crutch-tight denim shorts, high heels and tight leather jackets that emphasised their ample cleavages. The blonde, Amanda, was very attractive. But the brunette, Charmaine, was a head-turning glamour with a sweet face and a tight little rump that would make a devout Muslim reach for a shot of Jack Daniels and a schooner chaser. Both were working girls and both were very good at their chose
n careers.

  ‘Hello Les. Hello Billy,’ chirped the girls as they went past.

  ‘G’day Charmaine. Hello Amanda,’ Billy Dunne smiled back.

  ‘Not much of a night to be wearing shorts, ladies,’ Les commented cheerfully.

  Charmaine stopped, did a little bump and grind in front of the boys and thrust out her pussy. ‘Well Les,’ she cooed, ‘like any small business person, you have to display your merchandise the best way you can.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right, Charmaine,’ Les smiled back. ‘Anyway, you stay safe out there.’

  ‘We will,’ she replied.

  ‘You know where we are if you need us,’ said Billy.

  ‘Thanks, Billy,’ Amanda smiled back over her shoulder.

  The boys watched the girls disappear into the night then Billy turned to Les. ‘Look at the arse on that Charmaine,’ he said. ‘She is seriously fuckin good-looking.’

  ‘Yeah. You’re not wrong,’ agreed Les. He gave his head a brief shake. ‘You know, Billy, it’s a dead-set shame,’ he said, ‘to see a girl as beautiful as that flogging her lamington round the Cross. I’d marry her.’

  ‘So would I,’ answered Billy. ‘If I wasn’t already living a life of happily married bliss.’

  ‘Half your luck mate.’

  Billy stared at Norton for a moment. ‘You know, Les,’ he said, with a slight smile. ‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.’

  ‘Go for your life mate,’ answered Les.

  ‘You manage to get your hands on a few sheilas,’ said Billy.

  ‘Ohh yeah,’ drawled Les. ‘I have a bit of luck with the girlies now and again. But I mostly seem to be in the right place at the right time. And if you’re not a poser and you lighten up, you always seem to get on okay.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Billy. ‘So then, who’s the best sort you’ve ever rooted?’

  ‘I say, William,’ admonished Les. ‘That’s a little chauvinistic, isn’t it? Don’t you mean, who is the most attractive young lady I’ve ever made love to?’

  ‘Yeah all right. Whatever,’ replied Billy. ‘So go on. Who’s the best-looking potato you’ve ever thrown up in the air?’

  Les smiled at Billy for a second. ‘George,’ he quietly replied.

  ‘George?’

  ‘Yeah. Gorgeous George. I fell in love with her. And got a broken heart for my trouble.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Billy.

  ‘Not that long after I started work here. Around when I got the house and Warren moved in.’ Les looked at Billy. ‘I never said anything, because at the time I was doing a bit of pimping on the side.’

  Billy was aghast. ‘You? A pimp? I don’t fuckin believe it.’

  ‘Believe it mate,’ said Les. ‘I was a hoon. A dirty low-life egg and spoon. A bludger living off immoral earnings. A pimp.’

  ‘Les Norton a pimp,’ said Billy, still shaking his head. ‘What’s the bloody world coming to?’

  ‘It’s the truth, Billy,’ said Les. ‘And believe me mate, the chicks working for me got paid peanuts.’

  Billy had a quick look up and down Kelly Street. ‘Right that’s it,’ he said seriously. ‘There’s no cunt around. I want the full guts on this. Come on, big fellah. Open up.’

  Les thought for a moment. ‘All right, Billy,’ he sighed. ‘If you insist. Now let me see. It was during the summer. A Sunday. I was …’

  The Sunday afternoon drink in the Full Moon Lounge at the Oceanview Hotel in Coogee was always a big go. Overlooking Wedding Cake Island, the big white hotel, affectionately known as the ‘Oashey’, had a long bar downstairs, a gambling area and chairs and tables placed along the terrace, and steps that led in from the street. A wide set of stairs on the left led up to the Full Moon Lounge and above were the guest rooms.

  The Lounge was quite large with plenty of chairs and tables placed around a decent-sized dance floor and stage set against the wall behind it as you came up the stairs. A row of bay windows left of the dance floor overlooked the ocean and also faced a long bar opposite, and at the back of the chairs and tables, a small entry led to a sneaky little bar that served great cocktails; rum boxcars, high balls, margaritas, etc. All the waxheads and young blokes from around the Eastern Suburbs flocked there, along with no shortage of good-looking girls from the local beaches. A lot from Bondi. Which was where the old saying. ‘You can always tell a Bondi girl, but you can’t tell her much,’ came right into play. They were all very good-looking with lovely hair and stacked like timber yards in their tight blue jeans and tops. But they had the meanest, smart-arsed dispositions of any women in Australia. Their favourite trick was to sit at a table looking all seductive and sophisticated while they sipped their drinks and whenever some poor unsuspecting bloke would come over and ask one of them for a dance, she’d look at him like he was some malignant growth forming on the floor, then flatly tell him to go shit in his hat. A minute later, after a good laugh with her girlfriends, the same girl would then get up and dance with one of them to rub it in. The girls from the other local beaches weren’t quite as bad. But fortunately a lot of girls from the western suburbs went there. And after being harassed by swarthy, macho creeps with as much personality as a mud brick driving hotted-up cars, the local waxheads with their suntans, blond hair, good builds and nutty surf patter seemed like better value. Les and his mates had more fun hitting on the westie chicks.

  Les used to go there a lot with Warren who often referred to the Sunday afternoon drink as ‘Going over to match wits with the smarties.’ However, when Les started at the Kelly Club, he had to work Sunday nights and going over the Oashey and getting half loaded before going to work didn’t go down too well; unless Les wanted to drink mineral water or unleaded beer, and that didn’t appeal to the big Queenslander one bit. So if it came to a toss-up between matching wits with the smarties on Sunday afternoon and an easy, well-paying job, Les chose work at the Kelly Club any day.

  However, this particular bright, warm Sunday afternoon, Les was behind the wheel of his trusty Holden wearing light sunglasses, a pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt heading to the Oceanview after a phone call he had got the day before. Actually it was one of two unexpected phone calls he got that Saturday. The phone call that sent him to the Oashey was from a skinny, dark-haired landscaper named Alan Pearson who did a bit of work for Les and lived just up the road from the hotel. Besides being a capable landscaper, Alan was also a very good photographer and got a fair bit of work on the side. He rang Les to say he was going through some old photos and found six he’d taken of Les when Norton was playing second row for Easts and they beat Manly 34–6. Why not come over the Oashey on Sunday and pick them up? Les was stoked.

  ‘Shit! I remember that day,’ he laughed into the phone. ‘We belted them. I scored two tries and topped the tackle count.’

  ‘You also hit Big Harry Hamilton with a shoulder charge and nearly killed him,’ said Alan. ‘I even got a photo of that.’

  ‘Yeah,’ chuckled Les. ‘Poor Big Harry. They took him off in a wheelbarrow. So where will I find you over there?’

  ‘I’ll be at the top of the stairs as you come in,’ replied Alan.

  ‘I won’t be able to have a drink with you, Alan, because I got to go to work later.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘So what do I owe you for the photos, Alan?’

  ‘Nothing,’ answered Alan. ‘It’s all sweet.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks mate,’ said Les. ‘I’ll see you over there about three o’clock.’

  ‘Righto Les. See you then.’

  Well, what a good bloke that Alan is, smiled Les as he hung up the phone. I can’t wait to see those photos of my illustrious football career in Sydney. I haven’t got a real lot. Mainly the ones in the paper when Easts booted me out of the club. Unappreciative bastards, Les sniffed. He got up, had a nap then got ready for work. Which turned out to be a very easy night for both Billy and himself.

  Now it was Sunday afternoon and Les was
at the bottom of Hall Street turning into Campbell Parade on his way to Coogee. Unexpectedly he spotted a nuggetty, fair-haired man he knew, standing down from the bus stop. It was a fork lift driver named Buzzy Mathis who Les once shared a flat with near the beach.

  Buzzy was wearing blue cargoes and a blue Hawaiian shirt and Les couldn’t mistake his happy face and square chin. Les also shared the same flat with a wharf labourer named Ronnie Dickson, whose nickname was The Hog. Where Buzzy was a good style of a bloke who liked to surf and meet girls, Ronnie was a little different. Dark-haired, thickset and carrying a little weight, Ronnie didn’t surf and was one of the ugliest men the good Lord put on the planet. However, Ronnie wasn’t born completely ugly. He just had the extra ugly bashed into him playing football, hence the nickname Hog. Les played park football alongside Ronnie and although he was a very willing player and never walked away from a fight on or off the field, Les couldn’t help notice Ronnie would gladly take ten punches to land one. Consequently, Hog had no front teeth, a smashed nose in the middle of his leathery face and scar tissue round his eyes like an old tent fighter. But he was a happy-go-lucky bloke who liked a laugh and his only fault, if any, was that he was an exuberant drunk. Not in a nasty way that would cause any harm, he just liked to dance wildly and horse around cracking corny jokes and pulling faces. Les, Buzzy and Hog all got on well in the flat and had a few good parties till the flat broke up and, still very good friends, they all went their separate ways. Les pulled up in front of Buzzy and wound down the passenger side window.