Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas Page 19

  ‘Oh, Les,’ he said. ‘This is Carol.’

  ‘Hello, Carol,’ replied Norton.

  ‘Harrumphgh, Les,’ answered Olive Oyle, through another mouthful of prawn roll, causing more of it to fall on the floor.

  When Norton finished peeling the prawns, Quigley got him to squeeze lemon on them plus a splash of vinegar and put them back in the fridge. Then Les started on the garlic bread, which simply meant cutting into some bread rolls three or four times and painting them with melted butter and crushed garlic, using a filthy old paint brush Quigley produced from somewhere then wrapping them in aluminium foil before putting them back in the fridge.

  When Les was halfway through the garlic bread, waitress number two arrived. She was a bit on the dumpy side with straggly blonde hair, wearing a black minidress and a white shirt. She said hello to Quigley then, like Carol, she tossed her cigarettes, car keys and purse into the pantry corner and got out a cheap bottle of Scotch. And like Carol, she also poured herself a stiff drink and lit a cigarette. Again Les may as well not have been there as she got into conversation with Quigley and Carol. Eventually Quigley introduced her as Mendle. Hello, mused Les, what a quinella: Olive Oyle and Mendle As Anything.

  By now a few customers had begun to drift in; although this brief interruption in no way hindered Quigley or the waitresses drinking or smoking one cigarette after another. The blower above the stove was on but the cigarette smoke in the kitchen was now burning Norton’s eyes. It was also starting to piss him off as well. He was about to make a sarcastic remark about passive smoking and health regulations when he felt something rubbing up against his leg. It was an old, red alley cat, who had let itself in through a hole in the flyscreen door. Les was about to automatically kick its arse back out the door when Quigley spoke.

  ‘Here you are, Rusty,’ he said, and cut up a few scraps of beef which he dropped straight onto the floor near the sink.

  The cat got stuck straight into it, its tail up in the air moving slowly from side to side. Jesus, thought Les, what next? Normally by now, especially working in a restaurant surrounded by food, Les would be getting a bit on the peckish side. Also with the heat he would have had a pronounced thirst and be absolutely tonguing for a beer. But between the cat eating off the floor, the filthy state of the freezer, and the way Carol ate, somehow made him completely lose his appetite. And the way they all slopped booze down their throats like mule skinners in the Last Chance Saloon was enough to turn Norton off drinking for the rest of his life.

  The moggy left the way it came in, accompanied by a flurry of barking, growling, hissing and spitting. Norton glanced over between washing pots and dishes and saw an old grey mongrel dog with its nose through the hole in the flyscreen door.

  ‘Hello, Bootsie,’ said Quigley.

  Quigley opened the door and dumped some more food scraps on the floor. It was the dog’s turn to get on the feedbag, which it did, accompanied by much grunting and slobbering all over the floor. That’s it, thought Norton, shaking his head, if a rat comes out of one of the cupboards and Quigley says ‘hello Tiddles’ and starts feeding it, I’m knocking off.

  Unbelievably, there were customers, and Norton was kept busy washing dishes, scrubbing filthy, blackened pots and getting things for Quigley from the pantry and the freezer, while the owner and his two waitresses smoked at least a hundred cigarettes each and drank themselves into oblivion.

  The night progressed with Norton switched off as best he could. He managed to save his eyesight and lessen the damage to his lungs by going out amongst the empty bottles in the backyard every now and again for a bit of fresh air. In the meantime, he’d found a new job; emptying the girls’ ashtrays for them. He also found out that the stuff he’d seen boiling away on the stove earlier was called demi-glace and all the scraps and leftover wine went into it to be reduced down to stock. He also found out where all the vegetables that didn’t go into the bucket under the table went: back out into the restaurant. Norton just blinked when he saw what he swore were the same vegetables go round about four times. Christ, is it Saturday night yet? he thought, as ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree’ gurgled out of the radio sitting on top of the pie-warmer. But it was tolerable — until Saturday night anyway. Then who should arrive, acting like he owned the place, but Quigley’s mate Layton Mitner with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

  He was about two inches taller than Les and about two stone lighter; but acted like he was six inches taller and four stone heavier. He had a long, sallow face like Quigley and was about the same age with lidded brown eyes, and weak, brown hair combed up to give it a bit of body. He was wearing grey trousers and brown shoes and a green and black shirt, and acted like Joe Cool in front of the two waitresses, but looked about as sharp as a wet fishfinger. For some reason Norton disliked him the minute he laid eyes on him.

  ‘G’day, Bob,’ he said, bursting through the flyscreen door like Elliott Ness.

  ‘Hello, Layton,’ replied Quigley.

  ‘You been busy?’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Quigley. ‘Not too bad.’

  Layton let the girls know he’d arrived then got into a muted conversation with Quigley. Except for Layton checking out his every move, Norton was once again ignored. Eventually Quigley made a half-hearted effort at some manners.

  ‘Oh, Les. This is Layton.’

  ‘Hello, Layton,’ replied Les, about to offer his hand.

  Quigley’s mate gave him a brief once up and down and a muttered ‘Les’, not bothering to offer his hand, and went back to his muted conversation with Quigley.

  Oh well, fuck you then, thought Les. Suits me, and continued with his chores.

  Out of the blue Quigley gave him an odd order. ‘Les? Those bottles out the back. Go and push them into the corner a bit, will you?’

  ‘Okay,’ shrugged Norton, happy to get away from the cigarette fumes for a while.

  Push them into the corner? Buggered if I can see what difference it’ll make, thought Les, as he surveyed what was literally hundreds of empty wine and beer bottles. Oh well, who gives a stuff? Norton began moving the bottles away from the restaurant into a comer, mainly with his feet and legs. He glanced back at the kitchen window and saw Layton and Quigley in a huddle beneath the cupboard in the corner between the sink and the stove. The cupboard door was open and obscured his view somewhat, but there appeared to be an exchange of something between Quigley and Layton, then Quigley placed something in the cupboard and closed the door. After he did he put his head through the door and called out to Norton.

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Les. You can leave it till tomorrow night.’

  ‘Okay,’ shrugged Norton.

  Les went back into the smoky heat and began washing more dishes. Mitner had a plate of food and although Les had his back to him he could feel the ex-kitchen hand’s eyes boring into his back.

  ‘Bob tells me you’ve been working up the Cross,’ said Layton.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Les.

  ‘Up with all the poofters, eh?’ Mitner had a high-pitched, girlish laugh which he let go at the end of just about every sentence. ‘I thought you might have. All the poofters wear pink headbands and blue T-shirts.’ This was accompanied by more giggly laughter. ‘I suppose you go to the Gay Mardi Gras too. With all your poofter mates from round the Cross.’

  The two pisshead waitresses gave a bit of a titter and even Quigley seemed a little amused. Mitner was starting to play to the crowd, now thinking Les was just too plain dumb to have any comeback. Norton stared down into the sink as his blood started to, if not boil, begin to simmer a bit. Will I break this cunt’s jaw now or won’t I? He ground his teeth and said nothing. No, not tonight. I still need that alibi. But I guarantee if he’s around when I knock off next Saturday night, I’ll stick his head straight through that fuckin’ freezer door. In fact if he’s not here, I might work an extra night just to do it. And I might shove his mate’s head through the fuckin’ thing as well.

  ‘Li
sten, Les,’ continued Layton. ‘If you’ve got AIDS from some of your poofter mates, you can’t work here, you know.’ This was accompanied by another burst of giggling laughter.

  ‘Go on, eh?’ said Les.

  ‘Yeah. You can’t handle food if you’ve been copping it up the arse,’ giggled Mitner.

  ‘How about skinny big mugs with big mouths,’ muttered Norton. ‘Are you allowed to handle them?’

  ‘What?’

  Norton somehow managed to keep switched off, even though, if Layton mentioned the word poofter once, he mentioned it two hundred times. He also managed to get in Norton’s way as much as possible, making Les weave around him as he worked. Before he went, he left his plate on the bench for Norton to scrape off and clean. He didn’t bother to say goodbye to Les but told Quigley that he’d see him tomorrow night. Norton couldn’t wait.

  The night limped along. Quigley, a constant beer at his side, managed to keep cooking and the two waitresses, in between their steady drinking and smoking, managed to get the food out to the customers and bring the plates back in.

  Before long, some other customers started coming round the back. They were mainly surfie looking types in their early twenties and younger, mostly men, but a number of young women too. They’d come to the back door, look at Les for a moment, then step inside and go over to Quigley. A few words would take place, Quigley would go to the cupboard next to the stove, there would be an exchange of money and something else, and then they’d leave. The two waitresses carried on as normal and Les, knowing he was expected to be too dumb to realise what was going on, carried on as if nothing unusual was happening either. Jesus, just what sort of a shit light have I got myself into here? he thought. Somehow the customers at both the front and back dwindled off and it was time to clean up and go home.

  The girls swept and vacuumed the restaurant; Les cleaned up all the kitchen, taking out the bottles and putting the rubbish in a dump-bin at the back of the motel. One of the last jobs he had to do before mopping the floor was to take the blackened rings off the stove and scrub them in the sink with a copper scourer. Les was glad now he’d thrown an old pair of rubber gloves in his bag, as the burners were close enough to red hot. As he got the last burner off the stove, Norton blinked in disbelief at what was beneath. It looked like the scene of the Exxon Valdez disaster. There was oil, grease, fat, pieces of meat and vegetables and other shit almost a foot deep which must have been around twelve months old. It wasn’t only filthy: it was downright dangerous. If a match or a flame of some description had gone down there, it would have literally gone off like a petrol bomb. God almighty, thought Les. What a bloody pigsty.

  It was almost twelve when Norton knocked off. The other three seemed to stay back and continue drinking; Les wasn’t offered a beer and it appeared Quigley wanted him out of the place and the sooner the better. Norton was given eight dollars an hour, which came to $52, which Quigley magnanimously made up to $55, as well as grudgingly telling Les that he hadn’t gone too bad. Norton was tempted to go down on his hands and knees in gratitude.

  ‘Can you come in at five tomorrow?’ said Quigley. ‘We might be a bit busy Friday night.’

  Norton shuddered. An extra half-hour in this pit. ‘Yeah, righto, Bob,’ he answered, tossing his sweatband in his overnight bag.

  ‘Okay. See you tomorrow night.’

  The two waitresses muttered a disinterested goodbye and that was it. Norton walked to his car, leaving them to their booze and cigarettes and whatever else there might be with him not around.

  Sitting behind the wheel Norton couldn’t believe how much he stank. It was a mixture of sweat, garlic, and cooking smells, but mainly cigarette smoke. Also, his throat was sore, his eyes were still stinging and he was getting a headache. He felt like taking the $55 Quigley had given him and throwing it out the window. Instead he drove straight home to have a shower and two Panadols.

  Warren wasn’t in when he got home. Oh well, at least someone’s having a good time thought Les. In fact, no matter what Warren does tonight, apart from getting run over by a bus, he’d have to have a better time than I did. Shit! What am I gonna tell him in the morning?

  Norton’s clothes were absolutely putrid and he couldn’t ever remember feeling so dirty and smelly; the shower was pure bliss. He intended watching a bit of TV after it but couldn’t believe how tired and dried out he felt. He made a mug of Ovaltine and after dropping the two headache tablets found himself yawning like a lion before he was halfway through it. Stuff this for a joke, I’m going to bed. As he lay on the pillow, Norton’s last thoughts before drifting off were that he was a complete and utter mug for taking on that kitchen hand job, even if it was a perfect alibi. It was plain punishing. Plus he now had to put up with Quigley’s smartarse mate Layton. And I’ve got another two fuckin’ nights to go. Christ! Norton shook his head. I must be crooked on myself. You wouldn’t wish that joint on your worst enemy. Not the Burma Railway? Hah! It makes the Burma Railway seem like a month on Lindeman Island. Oh well. I suppose it’s all for the best.

  Norton blinked his way into consciousness around eight. Like the previous day it was cloudy, but still warm.

  Warren was in the kitchen sipping coffee and reading the paper when Les walked in, still wiping water and tiredness from his eyes.

  ‘Well, cut my legs off and call me Shorty,’ grinned Warren. ‘If it isn’t Bogdan the kitchen hand. How was it last night, Boggers? Have a good time, did you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Norton, feeling the kettle before switching it on. ‘It was tops. I had a ball.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll bet you did,’ answered Warren, smiling at the look on Norton’s face. ‘The place is a brothel. The food there’s killed more people than road accidents.’

  Les stood and blinked at Warren. ‘How did you know?’ he said, before he realised it.

  ‘How do I know? I used to go to Randwick High School with Quigley. He was a grub then. The only reason he stays in business is because his uncle’s a health inspector at Randwick Council. Even then, I still don’t know how he keeps going.’

  Norton was about to say something but changed his mind. ‘You didn’t tell me this yesterday, you cunt,’ he muttered, shovelling coffee and honey into a mug.

  ‘I didn’t want to spoil your enthusiasm.’ Warren threw back his head and roared laughing. ‘You fuckin’ Dubbo.’

  Norton shook his head and somehow couldn’t help but agree. As he sipped his coffee he told Warren a bit about the restaurant. He didn’t mention Layton and he didn’t mention the hustle between him and Quigley in the comer. Warren seemed to laugh even louder at the low night Les had gone through; then he settled down.

  ‘So how long are you going to maintain your new career as catering hygiene supervisory officer at the Devlin slop pit?’

  ‘Till Saturday night.’

  ‘Saturday night! You’re kidding.’

  ‘I told Quigley I would. And I’m a man who keeps his word, Warren.’

  ‘Tight-arsed wally’d be more like it.’

  ‘You’re entitled to your opinions, prick features.’ Norton took another sip of coffee and sat down. ‘So, what happened to you last night? You weren’t in when I got home.’

  ‘I went out. To the opening of a nice, shiny new bar in Darlinghurst.’

  ‘Darlinghurst, eh? What did you wear? Your dressing gown, or the sequin top with the matching handbag?’

  ‘It wasn’t that type of bar, gorilla head. In fact, I had a good time. Took it easy on the piss, met not a bad sort there and finished back at her place for a cup of coffee.’

  Norton looked astounded. ‘Don’t tell me you finally got a root.’

  ‘No. But we’ll put this one down as a probable. I’m taking her out Saturday night.’

  ‘Lucky girl. Why don’t you bring her over the Devlin for a feed?’

  ‘Les. I want to get into her pants, not get her into hospital. The pumping I intend doing on Saturday night isn’t with a stomach pump.’ Warren sippe
d the last of his coffee and folded the newspaper. ‘No, I don’t know where I’ll take her. Could you suggest anything? Would the kitchen hand know of any good parties or anything this Saturday night?’

  Les stared at Warren and tried to keep a straight face. ‘How the fuck would I know of any parties on Saturday night? I’ll be up to my arsehole in cockroaches and dirty dishes.’

  ‘And deservedly so too.’ Warren put his cup in the sink and walked round and gave Les a fatherly pat on the shoulder. ‘In the meantime, Bogdan, don’t work too hard. And do us a favour: don’t bother bringing any food home from the restaurant with you. I’d rather commit harikari than eat any of that shit. It’d be better for your stomach. See you, Boggers.’

  ‘Have a nice day, Warren.’

  Norton was forced to let it go at that. It hadn’t been a bad serve Warren had given him and he was forced to cop it sweet. At least he now knew how Quigley could have his restaurant like a pigsty and still stay in business. Les did have one chuckle though. Did he know where there was a party on Saturday night? Did he what! A ripper — not far away and with a band thrown in. Bad luck about that, Woz, old mate. Maybe next time. So what to do now?