Still Riding on the Storm Page 7

  Warren didn’t reply. He just glowered up at Les, who had his back turned as he walked towards the shower. If he’d seen the rotten smirk on Norton’s dial he certainly would have, though.

  And so it went on for another week or so. Warren getting more frustrated and annoyed with each passing day and Les finding it harder and harder not to burst out laughing every morning he’d happen to see Warren’s face at breakfast. Norton knew something had to happen sooner or later.

  To describe the following Thursday night at work as being a bit of a bastard, would be like saying Darwin was a bit windy at Christmas in 1974. There were fights and arguments in and out of the Kelly Club nearly all night. A couple of out-of-town punters got drunk quick and did their money even quicker. Convinced they’d been robbed, they started putting on a drama and had to be given the heave. Three good sorts Billy and Les let in turned out to be apple charlottes over from Perth. They started trying to pull tricks in the club and they got the lemon also. They wouldn’t go, so they had to be frogmarched down the stairs to much shrieking, protesting and abuse.

  ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ said Billy, adjusting his bow-tie out the front after kicking the loudest and foulest-mouthed one, a tall brunette, fair up the jacksie.

  ‘Did you say a woman scorned or a woman’s corns?’ smiled Norton, watching the lovelies storm off up the street, giving the boys the finger as they left.

  Price had taken a bait in some seafood restaurant at lunchtime, and he literally had the tom-tits all night. And the pong when he came out of the staff’s private brascoe was enough to make a dung-beetle bring up its lunch.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Norton, stepping into the men’s room to find his boss propped over the sink washing his hands. ‘Did something die in here?’

  Price’s usually tanned face was pallid and looked more like something you’d see on a bottle of poison. ‘Seeing you’re a mate, Les,’ he croaked, ‘I might shout you to a grouse seafood restaurant tomorrow. It’s over at Balmain and it’d just suit a big wombat like you.’

  ‘What do they sell in there?’ replied Norton, giving his ailing boss a quick once-up-and-down. ‘Tinned rat?’

  The boys had another three fights out the front, nothing they couldn’t handle and nothing to worry about, although one bushy-haired Westie, who’d been giving cheek with a Westie mate and who Billy had to tap on the chin, swore he’d be back with a team and they’d sort both him and Les out after work.

  ‘You don’t have to have a long neck and feathers to be a goose, do you?’ said Billy, as they watched ‘Mop Top’ and his mate still cursing them as they skulked off up Kelly Street.

  Norton smiled, shook his big red head and tilted an eye towards the bit of rain starting to patter down from the night sky. ‘I think it’s the humidity brings ’em out, Billy.’

  Between all this rattle, Norton had to take care of two bottles of Cusano Rujo Mezcal for Warren. Some flight attendant mate of his, a regular at the club who lived in Coogee, got them in America through some other mate of Warren’s, a photographer who lived in Florida and imported them from some obscure little village in the middle of Mexico. It was a long and involved process to get bottles of something that not only got you roaring drunk, but almost put you in the rathouse at the same time as far as Les was concerned.

  But eventually the night was finished and they were both more than happy about it as they walked up to where their cars were parked next to each other, near the fire station, around 5 a.m.

  ‘Well, am I ever glad that’s over,’ said Billy.

  ‘Yeah. It was a bit of a pain in the arse all right,’ replied Norton.

  Les just had time to place the two bottles of Mezcal on the front seat when Billy tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up at a movement coming from the shadows. It was the Westie Billy had tapped on the Gilbeys earlier; only now he had five mates with him.

  Billy and Les realised straight away that Mop Top and his mates hadn’t dropped by for a few hands of Five Hundred, so they immediately went into a well-rehearsed routine. Shoulder to shoulder they walked slowly towards the advancing mugs.

  ‘Listen, fellahs,’ said Billy, making an open-handed gesture. ‘We’re not looking for any trouble.’ Then he and Les let go two withering left-hooks.

  It doesn’t matter who you are — Joe Frazier or Bruce Lee. If a super-fit, fifteen-stone Queenslander or the ex-middleweight champion of Australia king-hit you, you know you’ve been hit. The first two mugs went down quicker than Linda Lovelace. After that it was on, more or less. Billy and Les made left-hooks and uppercuts the special of the day and soon the other four were sitting on their backsides with their mates wondering what had happened. Though it wasn’t all plain sailing — Mop Top’s mates were solid and a bit willing and could possibly have been into a bit of Inca icing sugar. Billy lost a bit of bark and Les got a split lip. The boys were just about to do a bit of Balmain folk dancing up and down the yobbos’ ribcages to make sure they didn’t get up when they were frozen in the headlights of a paddy-wagon coming around the corner of Caldwell Street.

  A woman’s voice called out from the front seat. ‘You two. Don’t move.’

  Then a Holden with another two uniformed cops seemed to pull up at the same time.

  As usual with ringleaders and weak mugs, Mop Top didn’t seem to be all that hurt. Before Billy and Les could get a chance to explain, he jumped up, wiping blood from his nose, and started screaming assault. And it did certainly look that way to the woman two-striper who climbed out of the wagon. A tall blonde in her mid-twenties and with not a bad head, she was in charge. She’d been transferred to Sydney from Wagga, she’d seen every episode of Cagney and Lacey and Hill Street Blues and she was determined to clean up all the crime in the inner city area. She must have left most of her brains back in Wagga because she gave Mop Top and his mates the benefit of the doubt and arrested Les and Billy.

  ‘I don’t bloody well believe this,’ said Billy as he clambered up into the back of the paddy-wagon, while Mop Top got into the Holden and they rang an ambulance for his mates.

  ‘Neither do bloody I,’ growled Norton. The door slammed, the lock clicked and he sat down trying to avoid the pile of curried pork and rice some punter had brought up in there earlier.

  ‘Who’s gonna ring Price?’

  ‘Dunno,’ muttered Les. ‘But if he had the tom-tits earlier, he’ll have ’em in spades now. It’s nearly half past bloody five.’

  The wagon began rumbling towards Macleay Street and before long Norton could see the El Alamein Fountain through the grille and they were at Kings Cross police station.

  The police station was half full of people coming and going — junkies, drunks, working girls, detectives, brawlers, etc, when the blonde policewoman led Les and Billy through the throng like she’d just captured Russell Cox. Before long the other two cops walked in with Mop Top, still screaming blue murder at the top of his voice.

  ‘In there,’ she said, motioning Les and Billy towards a small dock with the wall marked off in centimetres behind. As they shuffled towards it, Billy caught the desk sergeant’s eye and whispered something in his ear. Next thing he was led to a telephone.

  ‘Hey, what’s —’ said the policewoman.

  ‘Oh, shut up for five minutes will you, O’Connell. And give your arse a chance,’ said the grizzled old desk sergeant.

  O’Connell gave a double blink then began huffing and puffing as she started to process Les. Over her head, Les could see Billy dialling a number. He caught Les’ eye, crossed his fingers and made a grimace as he waited on the line. The next thing, Billy said something into the phone, nodded and handed it to the desk sergeant. The desk sergeant said something, then it was his turn for a few double blinks; he almost saluted as he gently placed the receiver down, walked into an office and came out with a Divisional Inspector who couldn’t seem to get to the phone quick enough. The DI seemed to do nothing but nod his head for a minute or so before he hung up. He
said something to the desk sergeant then turned to O‘Connell, gave her a thin smile, hooked a finger in her direction then pointed to his office. Sheepishly, she followed him inside.

  ‘Sorry about that, old mate,’ said the desk sergeant, letting Norton out of the dock.

  ‘That’s all right, sarge,’ replied Les.

  ‘Just wait here for a moment. The DI wants to see you before you go.’

  ‘Righto.’ Les joined Billy who was leaning against the desk.

  ‘Looks like we won’t be needing our room for the night after all,’ said Billy.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ agreed the desk sergeant. ‘But I know bloody someone that will.’ He walked over to Mop Top, who was still screaming his head off in the background, grabbed him by the collar and shoved him in the dock. ‘In there you. And shut up. You’re under arrest.’

  ‘Under arrest,’ bellowed Mop Top. ‘What for?’

  ‘Being a drop kick’ll do for a start,’ said the desk sergeant. ‘And don’t even think about getting bail. ’Cause you won’t see bail with a telescope.’

  ‘Well, that was just a bit of a mix up,’ said the DI, walking Les and Billy to the front door with his arms around their shoulders like they were two long-lost sons. ‘And plain old Constable O’Connell would like to apologise, too.’

  Les turned back to the policewoman and noticed the two pips on her sleeves. He also noticed that, although she was red faced and almost in tears, now that her aloofness was gone she wasn’t half a bad sort. ‘Constable?’ he said.

  ‘She will be on Monday,’ nodded the DI.

  ‘All right if I have a word with her for a second?’

  ‘Sure. Go for your life.’

  The DI returned to his office and Billy waited while Les had a quick talk to Constable O’Connell or whatever she was. After a few minutes Billy saw the policewoman smile then shake hands with Les.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Billy, as they started walking back to their cars.

  ‘Ahh, she wasn’t a bad poor scout,’ replied Les. ‘Just been watching a bit too much TV. That’s all. She probably thinks Kings Cross is Dodge City and she’s Wyatt Earp. And she’s a country girl.’ Norton emphasised this with a slap on Billy’s shoulders. ‘So she can’t be all bad.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ nodded Billy.

  ‘Besides. She didn’t have a bad arse, you know. And not a bad ankle either, underneath those horrible big, black shoes. So I got her phone number. She only lives over at Kingsford.’

  Billy was chuckling to himself as they got a little further into the Cross. ‘You ever knocked off a policewoman?’ he asked.

  Norton shook his head. ‘Can’t say I have. What about you?’

  ‘No. But I threw a scout mistress up in the air once. When I was about twenty.’

  The next thing, almost as if they both had ESP, they both started singing, ‘Women in uniform. They give me a great big horn.’

  Roaring with laughter, they trudged on through the dawn light coming up over the overflowing garbage tins, cockroaches and other denizens swarming around Macleay Street, Kings Cross, first thing in the morning.

  If Les was singing and laughing walking through the Cross, he was far from it when he pulled up outside his house around 6.30. His split lip was weeping blood, he was getting a headache and he had a sour, rotten taste in his mouth from an overcooked kebab he’d bought in Macleay Street. It was drizzling rain when he half stumbled out of his car. He noticed Warren’s unmarked morning paper lying where the newsagent had tossed it on the verandah. Old Menzies was conspicuous by his absence. Just as well, mused Norton. I’m not really in the mood for chit-chat this morning. Not even with old Ming. And Warren’s bloody paper can stay there too. He went inside, cleaned his teeth and crashed down on his bed.

  Seeing he’d been up all night, Les was expecting to crash straight out, but do you think he could sleep? Not a chance. He was now overtired and his mind wouldn’t stop ticking over as the night’s events kept flooding through his brain; hookers, brawls, women cops and an increasing headache on top of that. He tossed and he turned as the humidity seemed to turn his ever-brightening room into a sauna. Aah, bugger this, he thought, after about half an hour of restlessness. The day’s stuffed anyway, I might as well blot it completely out. He hauled himself off the bed and shuffled to the bathroom to get a couple of Warren’s Serepax.

  That’s funny, Norton thought, after thoroughly searching every cabinet in the bathroom. They’re not here. I only saw a fresh packet sitting there a couple of days ago. Then something in the wastepaper basket caught his eye; the Serepax packet. It was empty. Christ! That’s odd, thought Les. There were about thirty in this the other day. Bloody hell. Warren must be eating these like Smarties. He dropped the empty packet back in the bin, settled for a couple of Panadol and went back to bed.

  The Panadol eased his headache a little, but still he couldn’t sleep. He put a T-shirt over his eyes to keep out the light, but that didn’t help. Eventually he heard Warren get up, the shower running and the kitchen radio come on not long after that. Norton gave it about another fifteen minutes then decided to join Warren for a cup of something. There was no chance of him getting to sleep now.

  Unlike Les, Warren was in an absolutely jubilant mood when Norton walked into the kitchen. He had on a crisply ironed check shirt and was whistling to himself as he spread his second croissant with cherry jam and sipped his freshly percolated coffee while he flicked casually through his unmarked, ungummed Daily Telegraph. He noticed Norton and smiled. And a particularly smug sort of smile it seemed too.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said breezily. ‘If it isn’t the singing bouncer. And how are you this morning, old son?’

  ‘All right,’ grunted Les.

  Warren noticed Norton’s bloodshot eyes, drooping face and hair plastered all over his head. ‘Jesus! You’re a nice sight first thing in the morning. You look like Yosemite Sam after Bugs Bunny’s just given him an exploding cigar.’

  ‘You can cut the comedy, Warren,’ replied Norton tiredly. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Whenever are you, you big sheila?’ Warren continued to study Les as he fumbled around trying to make some Ovaltine and noticed his split lip. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Someone’s given you a smack in the mouth. What happened? Did you have to throw a couple of old-aged pensioners out last night? Is Price calling Bingo games up there now?’

  ‘As usual, Warren, you’re about as funny as the plague. But if you want to know.’ Les related to Warren the previous night’s events; right up to getting home, hitting the sack and just lying there. Which was why he was up now. ‘So that was it, Woz. One of the lowest nights I’ve ever had at the club. And now I can’t bloody sleep.’

  ‘Yeah. It certainly sounds like it,’ agreed Warren.

  ‘It was unbelievable, I can tell you.’ Shaking his head, Norton got up to make another Ovaltine, then he turned to Warren. ‘Hey, that’s what I meant to ask you. Where’s all those Serepax? I went to get a couple and there’s none there.’

  Warren seemed to colour a little. ‘Yeah. Well, I ah … I’ve been having a bit of trouble sleeping myself lately.’

  ‘Having trouble sleeping? Having trouble staying awake’d be more like it. What have you been taking? Ten a day.’

  ‘Not that many.’

  ‘Well the packet’s empty.’

  Warren buried himself back in his paper as Norton continued to stare at him. Then abruptly he changed the subject. ‘Ohh, that’s the other thing I meant to ask you. I know you had a lot of trouble and that last night, but did John drop those two bottles of Mezcal off for me?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Norton gave his fingers a click. ‘They’re out in the car. I’ll go out and get them for you.’

  It was still pattering light rain when Norton opened the car door. He picked up the two bottles of Mezcal from the front seat when a voice called out from across the road.

  ‘Oh, Les. Yoo hoo. Have you got a minute?’ It was old Mrs Curt
in standing at the front of her semi.

  ‘Yeah, sure, Mrs Curtin.’ Norton tucked the two bottles up under his arm and trotted across the road.

  ‘I never got a chance to see you yesterday, Les,’ said Mrs Curtin. ‘Did you hear what happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Old Menzies is gone.’

  ‘Gone? What do you mean Mrs Curtin?’

  ‘He died in his sleep on Wednesday night.’

  ‘Fair dinkum? Ohh jeez, that’s no good. I’m gonna miss his bony, moth-eaten old head round the joint.’

  ‘Yes, I know, Les. You and Menzies were good mates.’ Despite the sadness of losing the family pet, Mrs Curtin seemed to be in a whimsical sort of mood and there was a definite smile creasing the corners of her eyes. ‘Still, Les, I think it was all for the best. He was terribly old, you know. His eyes were just about gone. His bowels were gone and he used to crap everywhere. He was full of arthritis. So … maybe it’s for the best.’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Les solemnly. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘It’s a funny thing, though. He’s been real grumpy the last couple of years. But when we found him, he had this wonderful smile on his face. Almost like he was a pup again. And another thing, even though he’d been dead for hours, he was still quite warm. It was funny. Anyway, old Menzies went out in style.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Norton, ‘It sure sounds like it.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Reminds me a bit of a dog I had in Queensland. He died from drinking a half-gallon tin of varnish.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. He had an awful death. But a great finish. Anyway, I’d better get out of the rain. I’ll see you, Mrs Curtin. And I’m sorry about old Ming.’

  ‘Ta ta, Les.’

  ‘Aah, you got them,’ beamed Warren, looking at the two bottles of hooch. ‘Thanks a lot for that, mate.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m just glad you’re drinking the shit and not me.’

  Warren tilted one of the bottles and a huge, grey repulsive-looking grub swirled from one side to the other. ‘And then I’m gonna eat the grub.’