Guns 'n' Rose Read online

  For such a pleasant day the beach was fairly empty with just a few early risers swimming, having a jog or walking around. There was enough firm sand to run on at the water’s edge; Les zapped the car, walked over and did a few stretches. As he was touching his toes Les noticed an unusual-looking pebble lying on the sand. It was dark brown, a bit bigger than an egg, with a red and white swirl through it and reminded Les of a big liquorice all-sort. Les picked it up and thought he might toss it from one hand to the other as he was running along for something to do; also if there were any more nutty dogs around that felt like biting him they could have it between the eyes. Twenty minutes up and twenty minutes back would do for a run, then from the rockpool to the surf club and back would do for a swim, Les adjusted his sweatband and sunglasses and trotted off.

  The run along the beach in the sun tossing the pebble from one hand to the other while the odd wave washed in over his ankles was pure delight and Les wasn’t thinking about much, except how sweet it all was. But somehow Norton’s thoughts kept slipping back to Jimmy. He was a cheeky little bastard all right, yet Les couldn’t help liking him; enjoying life one minute then shit-stirring things the next. He was up to something, Les was certain of that and whatever that something was, Les felt it was something to do with bikies. That was no big deal and Les doubted very much if it had anything to do with drugs. There was something else about Jimmy, however. He was probably making up for time lost while he was in the nick—that was fair enough—but it was as if he didn’t give a stuff much about the future or anything for that matter. Les had been there to save his neck on a couple of occasions, but things could have gone the other way—especially last night—and Jimmy could have wound up getting his good-looking face plastered round the other side of his head. And the way he’d say, ‘I always wanted to do that’. It just struck Les as a bit odd. He shook his head. Oh well, he thought, I imagine I’ll find out what’s going on by next Wednesday. I’d still like to know what makes Jimmy tick, though.

  Les had a good head of steam up when he got back to the south end of the beach. He threw his sweaty gear in the car, put his goggles on and plunged into the sea. After the run, the swim felt even better. The water was clear and refreshing and he seemed to plough his way up to the surf club and back in no time at all. He got out and had a cold shower. Then, after drying off and changing into his shorts and his clean Rainbow Warrior T-shirt, Les felt like he was sparking on all six and ready to take on the world. Sitting on a bench beneath the pine trees, he decided to keep the funnylooking stone as a souvenir and was turning it round in his hand absently while he figured out what he should do. Or more in particular; where he should have some breakfast. Home would be best. Get the paper, then stuff round in the kitchen and sort things out from there till it was time to wake the star boarder. Les was miles away and didn’t notice the figure sit down next to him. The sudden and unexpected voice gave Les a bit of a start.

  ‘My friend, my friend. I knew it was you. It is ordained. It is truly the prophecy. Argghnszzknkgh.’

  Norton spun around. ‘You! What the fuck are you doing here?’

  It was the Shamash, wearing a filthy, brown trenchcoat belted in the middle, a battered, grey felt hat, a black Phantom T-shirt and a cheap pair of sunglasses with one lens missing. He was covered in dirt and filth from heat to foot; he stunk; his unshaven face was a mess of cuts and bruises and a black eye squinted mournfully from behind the missing lens. He reminded Les of Sam Spade after he’d just fallen under a stampede of yaks, then been mugged by grave robbers.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Norton. ‘Let me guess. You were fulfilling the prophecy, the green talisman was stolen from you by the evil one in the castle of doom, then your flying saucer clipped a meteorite and you crash-landed through a time warp quantum.’

  The Shamash shook his head adamantly. ‘No, no my friend,’ he croaked. ‘It was nothing like that at all. I merely went for cool ones and those I thought were my friends turned upon me.’

  ‘They what?’

  The Shamash made these pitiful gestures with his hands as if he was having trouble getting the words out. ‘It was late. Club Algiers was still open and knowing there are always friends of the Shamash there, I thought I would go in—and perhaps have a delicious. I walk up wearing my finest Humphrey Bogart outfit and immediately I hear the people calling. It is him. It is him. He is back. Yes, yes, I say. It is me—the Shamash. I have returned among you. I am back. I open my arms to greet my new-found friends, and walk straight into a giant king-hit. Then some crazy woman hit me across the head with a flower pot. Stop, stop, I say, it is me—the Shamash. Why do you do this? But to no avail, my friend. They beat me and kicked me, then threw things at me. Somehow I was able to drag my wretched body to a dumpmaster behind the hotel where I crawled inside and went to sleep.’ The Shamash screwed his face up into a mask of anguish, pain and bewilderment. ‘Why would they do this to me, my friend? I am the Shamash. I do nothing but greet them with my blessings as I always do. Why? Aeeiiighrnnngh.’

  Norton shook his head. ‘Buggered if I know, mate. I always thought you were the chosen one, too. Do you think it might have been your shoes?’

  ‘Shoes, my friend? What’s wrong with my shoes?’

  ‘You’re not wearing any.’

  ‘Aiieegghhnrngh.’

  I don’t believe it, thought Les. The poor bastard’s gone up to the disco dressed like that and those boofheads on the door must have thought it was Freddy Krueger come back again. So they’ve belted the shit out of him. It was probably a good enough excuse, anyway. He’s crawled into a dirt bin and crashed, now he’s crawled out and found me. Lucky bloody Les. But there was something in either the Shamash’s body language or his body odour that said he was desperate for something else besides grief counselling and male bonding. He’d also done business with Jimmy.

  ‘My friend, do you—’

  ‘Say no more, oh chosen one. I understand.’ Les held up the pebble he found on the beach. ‘You see this?’ The Shamash nodded. ‘Do you know what this is?’ The Shamash shook his head. ‘This—is the secret stone of the great charcoal filter in Lynchburg, Tennessee. Do you know what this sacred stone can do?’

  The Shamash looked at the pebble as if it was hypnotising him. ‘My friend, I think I am beginning to understand.’

  ‘The sacred stone—can produce the delicious.’

  ‘Delicious. Delicious. Yes, yes. Aarrgghhnnghnrr.’

  Norton pressed the pebble into the Shamash’s hand. ‘Take the sacred stone and wait here till I get back. Swear you won’t move from this spot.’

  ‘My friend, I swear. The Shamash awaits your return.’

  Les half jogged, half walked down to the newsagent’s and got the paper. The bottle shop wasn’t open, but the tall bloke was helping unload cases of wine from a van double-parked out the front. Les had the cash. Okay? Les walked out with a bottle of Jack Daniels, Coke, ice and a paper cup in a plastic carry bag. He walked back down to the Shamash who was still sitting staring at the pebble and showed him what he had. The Shamash went into raptures. It was more than the prophecy. It was a whole bottle.

  ‘Yes, yes. Delicious. Aieegghhngmn.’ The Shamash began to kneel at Norton’s feet. ‘The Shamash is your servant. I am your slave, oh jewel of the cosmos.’

  ‘Yeah, terrific. Now watch this.’ Les took the pebble off the Shamash, walked over to the car and locked it in the boot along with the bag of delicious, then walked back and held the keys up. ‘You see these? These are the keys to the secret cavern of the Berlina where lies the delicious. Do you want the keys?’

  ‘Yes, yes master. Delicious. The keys. Yes. Aiieegghngngh.’

  ‘Okay. Then I want some information.’

  ‘My friend.’ The Shamash licked his swollen lips and squinted up at Les through his black eye. ‘Tell me what it is you wish to know.’

  Norton sat down next to the Shamash and slowly folded his arms. ‘Where do you know Jimmy Rosewater from?’
r />   The Shamash seemed to think for a moment, then swallowed slowly. ‘Jimmy is my friend. The Shamash is everybody’s friend. But Jimmy is—my friend.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Jimmy is not young. Jimmy is not old. Jimmy is the timeless one.’

  ‘Where does he live? Where’s he come from?’

  ‘He comes. He goes. Jimmy is a free spirit.’

  ‘Okay. What’s he do for a living? Where’s he get his money from?’

  ‘Jimmy is an arranger. If it can be done, Jimmy can arrange it.’

  ‘Yeah, righto.’ Les couldn’t figure out whether the Shamash was being evasive, whether he was just a rambling drunk or whether that was just the way he saw things. Whatever the answer, he wasn’t getting far, and the Shamash wasn’t getting any closer to the boot of the Berlina. Les thought he’d persevere. ‘All right. What happened to Jimmy’s mother?’

  This appeared to ring a bell. The Shamash stared down at the footpath for a moment and what little expression there was on his battered face seemed to temporarily evaporate. ‘Rose was my friend. It was a bad thing. A bad thing.’

  ‘A bad thing? Like what?’

  ‘The men with fire in their feet. They did it. It was a terrible thing. Nothing could be done. Poor Jimmy. Bad, bad. Aieegheegh.’

  ‘The men with fire in their feet killed her?’ Les asked slowly.

  ‘Yes, no. They didn’t kill her, but they did. Bad men.’

  Christ, thought Les. I need a PhD in gibberish. This is fuckin’ ridiculous. I’ll try one more question and that’s it. ‘Who’s Jimmy’s father?’

  The Shamash drew back and held his hands up as if Norton was going to hit him. ‘I know not. The Shamash knows nothing. Don’t ask me. Please I beg. Aieeegghh.’

  Aha, I’ve hit a nerve, thought Les. ‘Yes, you do. Speak, you miserable dog. Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nobody knows. Aieegghhggh.’

  ‘The truth, dog. Speak.’ Les jangled the car keys in front of the Shamash’s face. ‘Or lose the key to the sacred cavern . . . forever. Now tell me, what’s Jimmy’s story?’

  ‘No, no. They will kill me. I will be tortured. They will gouge out my eyes with toothpicks. They will cut out my tongue. It will be the end of the Shamash. Aiieeggghhheeee.’

  ‘It’s either that,’ Les jangled the keys again, ‘or the end of the delicious.’

  ‘Delicious, delicious. Aieeeggh.’ The Shamash licked his swollen lips and looked as if he was going to sweat blood. ‘All right,’ he blurted. ‘Jimmy is in the Mafia.’

  ‘The Mafia? Ohh don’t give me the shits, you fuckin’ idiot. Your hat’s on too tight.’

  ‘It’s true, my friend. It’s true.’ There was desperation in the Shamash’s voice. ‘Bad men in Sydney. Gangsters, murderers. Assassins. They bury people. They look after Jimmy. I can say no more. I know no more. Believe me, effendi.’ The Shamash seemed to roll up into a ball of fear and misery, which to Norton looked like a severe case of overacting.

  Les looked at him for a moment. ‘Yeah, righto, I believe you. I haven’t got a fuckin’ clue what you’re talking about. But I believe you. Here.’ Les unlocked the boot of the car, folded up his paper, then handed the plastic bag to the Shamash. ‘Try not to drink it all at once.’

  The Shamash grasped the plastic bag like it were the crown jewels. ‘My friend, I am your servant.’

  ‘Yeah, terrific. See you later.’

  The Shamash was about to leave when he stopped and held his hand up in front of Norton. ‘My friend, do you think…’

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ Les had about seven dollars worth of change in his pocket. He dropped it in the Shamash’s hand. ‘There, that’s it. Now fuck off.’

  ‘My friend, my friend, I am leaving.’ The Shamash bowed a couple of times, then disappeared somewhere in the direction of the Haven.

  So that was worth a bottle of Jack Daniels was it? Norton shook his head in disgust. Not counting the ice, the Coke and all my change. The men with fire in their feet killed his mother and Jimmy’s in the fuckin’ Mafia. And that’s about it. Plus he’s got a fat heap of shit for an uncle who used to look like Kirk Douglas. Norton shook his head again and stared at the ocean. You know, in the grand scheme of things, who really gives a stuff? I’m going home for breakfast. Les slapped the newspaper against his leg and walked back to the car.

  When he got home, Jimmy was sitting in the kitchen wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, sipping orange juice and writing something in a notepad. He finished what he was writing just as Norton walked in, closed the notepad and looked up.

  ‘G’day, Les. What’s doing? I suppose you’ve been down the beach again stuffing yourself with fish and chips,’ he said.

  ‘No, as a matter of fact I went for a run,’ replied Norton. ‘Got a bit of exercise.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ nodded Jimmy. ‘I was watching you out the back of the limo last night and you were flat out getting up the hill, you big cheeseburger.’

  Les placed his paper on the table, got some orange juice and looked out the window. ‘And it looked like being such a nice day, too.’

  ‘Come on, don’t get the shits, disco daddy. I’ve got something nice lined up for you. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Fuckin’ starving.’

  ‘Good. Because I’m taking you to Berowra Waters for lunch. And seeing as you don’t like drinking piss with your food this’ll suit you, because you’re driving.’

  ‘I’m driving to Berowra Waters?’

  ‘No. Gosford. Then we pick up a seaplane.’

  ‘A seaplane? Hang on a minute. How big’s this fuckin’ seaplane?’

  ‘It’s—not very big, Les.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Don’t shit yourself. You’ll love it. Then we pick something up at the restaurant and bring it back with us.’

  Les looked at Jimmy for a second, then shrugged. ‘Okay. So what’s the story? Where are we going, what do I wear?’

  ‘We’re leaving in about half an hour. The place is called Peat’s Eate. It’s casual. But it’s also the absolute grouse. So try to look—’ Jimmy seemed to think for a moment as he picked up his notepad and his glass of orange juice—‘not like a Queenslander.’

  I wonder what would be worse, thought Les, as he went into the bedroom to get changed, doing twenty years in a Turkish prison or spending two weeks up here with both Jimmy and Warren? It’d be a toss-up. Les left the same T-shirt on and changed into a clean pair of Levi’s, his Road Mocs and a denim jacket he bought in Hawaii with Wylie Coyote on the back. He tossed a couple of things into his overnight bag and went into the kitchen. Jimmy was leaning against the sink wearing his Sergio Tranchetti tracksuit and his Fila trainers.

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought I’d bring my camera,’ said Les, ‘plus a towel and another T-shirt in case we ditch.’

  Jimmy gave a bit of a chuckle. ‘I might put my mobile in there.’

  ‘Go for your life,’ said Les, ‘but if it gets wet, don’t blame me.’

  Jimmy did that, then looked at his watch. ‘Come on, Chuck Yager. Let’s get going.’

  There was a bit of traffic around Erina Fair, but the drive into Gosford listening to James Blundell twanging through ‘Fast Train’ on one of Norton’s tapes was easy enough. As they started heading along The Entrance Road Les told Jimmy about bumping into the Shamash earlier. He didn’t say anything about questioning him, just how he got punched up outside the disco and had put the snip on Les for his loose change. Jimmy couldn’t quite believe it at first, so Les had to repeat himself, then Jimmy started laughing fit to bust. Watching him rolling around behind his seat belt Les could see once again why women were attracted to Jimmy. All aborigines, with their brown skin and perfect teeth, have got beautiful smiles. But Jimmy’s was even more of an exception. It was highly infectious and almost lit up the front seat of the car.

  ‘You haven’t got a bad smile, Jimmy,’ Les told him. ‘You and your abo mates sho
uld try laughing more often. It’d do you the world of good.’

  ‘God, you’re not wrong,’ replied Jimmy, shaking his head. ‘But that is a complete crack-up. I can just see the cunt. Yes, my friends, it is me. I have returned. Bang! Crash!’

  Jimmy was still chortling away when he told Les to pull up next to a park just up from the Central Coast Leagues Club that faced Brisbane Water. Across the wide calm bay Les could see a range of low hills running towards Woy Woy and the Peninsula in the distance and on the right an electric train rattling out of Gosford Station towards Point Clare and Tascott. Les zapped the car doors and they crossed the road. A restaurant sat over the water on the left, on the right was an old Sydney Harbour ferry that had been converted into another restaurant, boats and yachts bobbed gently around on their moorings and, in between, a skinny, sandstone jetty with more boats tied up ran out about two hundred metres or so. There were a few cars parked around and several people fishing from the jetty; Les followed Jimmy out to a small wooden landing area at the end. It was a delightful day, with one or two clouds drifting across the blue sky and a light wind barely rippling the water. There was no sign of a plane, so Les stood easy taking it all in.

  ‘Bandits at eleven o’clock and closing,’ said Jimmy after a few moments.

  Norton looked up to his left. A black dot in the sky slowly drew nearer then started to bank. It was a blue and white single-engine job with two pontoons and steps fixed to the fuselage and windows running along the side. It landed easily, spreading a small arc in its wake, then gradually taxied around to the jetty as the pilot cut the motor. A bloke with a moustache and sunglasses, wearing blue trousers and a white shirt with epaulettes on the shoulders, got out and tied up. He gave Jimmy a big smile and a hello, and Les too. Jimmy said something to him, then they climbed on board. There was another pilot with a moustache sitting on the right up front, then a nicely dressed young couple, sitting behind them; Les and Jimmy piled in down the back. With six people inside counting the two pilots it was a bit of a squeeze and Les was glad Jimmy wasn’t any bigger. The co-pilot explained about the safety procedures if they did have to ditch and how they’d be dropping the young couple off somewhere else first before they flew on to Peat’s Eate. Most of this went over Norton’s head. What Les mostly noticed was that he was right up against the door, his knee almost jammed against the door handle that didn’t look any different to one on a car, and if the door should open and his seat belt come undone, it would be a long, long way down. Never having been on a plane this small before, Les was naturally a little apprehensive. He didn’t feel any better when the pilot turned round as they started to taxi off and said, ‘We’re going to have to do a cross-wind take-off. So it might get a bit bumpy and the plane might dip a little. But don’t let it worry you.’