Rosa-Marie's Baby

by Robert G. Barrett

  As usual the night went smooth as silk. The punters soon arrived to get in as much card-playing as possible before the club closed at twelve-thirty. Price only had a midnight licence, which suited everybody. But in that short space of time, hundreds of thousands, even millions of dollars changed hands on credit. The only drama was the usual hassle with young techno-heads coming up full of Ebeneezer thinking the Kelly Club was an exclusive disco. They’d all be dressed beautifully in expensive clothes, wearing the best cologne, their hair gelled up in the latest style, and Billy would tell them they couldn’t come in because they didn’t look cool enough and their clothes were so five minutes ago. Another of his put-downs was to tell them Kylie and Russell were inside with Nicole and Jodie. And if they saw people like them in the club they’d never come back. The ravers would leave absolutely shattered, wondering just how exclusive can one nightclub be? An hour before closing Eddie arrived wearing a black leather jacket, a char-grey polo shirt and black jeans.

  ‘Hello ladies,’ he said breezily as he stepped into the foyer. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it on Wednesday. What’s doing, anyway?’

  ‘Not much, Eddie,’ replied Billy. ‘What’s doing with you?’

  ‘The same,’ shrugged Eddie. He caught Norton’s eye and smiled. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘I believe Price wants to see me after work,’ said Les. ‘Your name was mentioned too, Edward.’

  ‘Yeah?’ replied Eddie. He feinted a left hook to the big Queenslander’s chin. ‘We’ll talk about it when we knock off.’

  Eddie disappeared up the stairs and Les left it at that. A few more members arrived for a late flutter and before Les knew it they had the club emptied, the staff had gone home, the front door was locked and they were sitting in Price’s office talking easily about this and that. Les was drinking Fourex, the others were drinking beer, scotch and vodka while Eddie was sipping a bottle of Pellegrino. They were talking about one of the Hungarians winning almost a hundred thousand and a likeable, retired Italian baker winning fifty thousand, when the conversation dwindled off. Les had a mouthful of Fourex, eased back in his seat and looked at Price.

  ‘Okay, Price me old mate,’ said Les. ‘Let’s get down to business. What did you want to see me about?’

  Price took a sip of Glenfiddich and soda, then placed the glass on a coaster on his office table. ‘Do you know a bloke called Latte Lindsey?’

  ‘Latte Lindsey?’ Les had to think for a moment. ‘Yeah. I think I do,’ he nodded. ‘Tall, sort of sallow-faced dork, around thirty, with an egg-shaped head. Got a real slimy smile. Poses as an art dealer or something.’

  ‘That’s him,’ said Price. ‘Oily as a kerosene lamp.’

  ‘Isn’t he the bloke used to go training with Killer and the boys down at City Tatts? And they caught him nicking their dough out of the locker room.’ Les turned to George. ‘Your nephew Kevin marked all the money and he got sprung when they were having a shout.’

  ‘You got him,’ nodded George. ‘He bolted out of the joint, otherwise they would have kicked the shit out of him.’

  ‘Bad luck they didn’t,’ said Billy.

  ‘How did he get the nickname Latte Lindsey?’ asked Les.

  ‘His parents are Poms, and he grew up in Pyrmont,’ said Eddie. ‘But he likes to swan around the coffee shops in Double Bay sucking down lattes. Always with his little finger sticking out.’

  ‘Yeah, I know him,’ said Les. ‘I said hello to him one day up Bondi Junction, and he looked straight through me. Guess I was beneath his standing.’

  ‘That’s Latte,’ nodded Eddie. ‘The fuckin poser.’

  ‘So what’s Latte done to incur your wrath, Price?’ asked Les.

  ‘What’s he done?’ scowled Price. ‘He sold my sister-in-law Kitty a painting for twenty-five grand that turned out to be a dud. It’s worth about two fuckin mintie wrappers.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Les.

  ‘I won’t go into it,’ said Price. ‘But I want him shortened up.’

  ‘And you want me and Eddie to do the shortening?’ said Les.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Price. ‘There’ll be a drink in it for you.’

  ‘Shit! You’re not gonna kill him, are you?’ said Les. ‘Honestly. I’m not into murder right now. And killing him won’t get Kitty her twenty-five grand back.’

  ‘No,’ said Eddie. ‘Not murder. Just a severe shortening up.’

  ‘I don’t expect to get Kitty’s money back,’ said Price. ‘But Latte wears a twenty-five thousand dollar Bvlgari watch, and a twenty thousand dollar diamond pinky ring he snookered off a dope dealer who’s in the can. I’ll settle for that.’

  Les thought for a moment. ‘So what did you have in mind?’

  ‘Latte’s train’s run out of track up here,’ said Eddie, ‘and he’s living in Melbourne. I’m not sure where. But I know where he’s putting his slimy head into an art sale down there this Saturday night.’

  Les sipped his beer. ‘Go on.’

  ‘So I thought you and I might fly down to Melbourne on the weekend,’ said Eddie. ‘Discuss the finer details of Rembrandt and Picasso with Latte. Then fly straight home again.’

  This was entirely unexpected and Norton’s mind went into overdrive. But he had to be cool. Very cool.

  ‘Shit I don’t know,’ he said, shaking his head reluctantly. ‘I’m not all that keen. Things are going good up here at the moment. And I can’t say I’m over-rapt in Melbourne.’

  ‘Christ! It’s only for a couple of nights,’ said Price. ‘You go down tomorrow. Eddie’ll meet you on Saturday. You sort Shithead out and fly back Saturday night. And a nice drink for your trouble.’

  ‘I can get someone else,’ said Eddie. ‘But I’d rather have you.’

  ‘You fly down business class,’ said Price. ‘I’ll put you up in a top hotel.’

  ‘And you can go shopping in Melbourne,’ said George. ‘Think of all the grouse clothes you can buy. You won’t have to get around looking like a grave robber anymore.’

  ‘Shit! I’ll go if you don’t want to,’ said Billy. ‘There’s a good night scene in Melbourne. It shits on Sydney.’

  Les shook his head and looked at the floor. ‘All right,’ he finally nodded. ‘I’ll go. But on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Price.

  ‘Arrange a rental car and book me into a pub at Lorne till Friday.’

  ‘Lorne? What’s the big attraction in Lorne?’ asked Price.

  ‘Nothing really,’ shrugged Les. ‘But I’ve always wanted to see the Great Ocean Road. And I’ve heard Lorne’s a nice spot.’

  Price shrugged and looked around the office. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘George. Sort that out with Gary.’

  ‘I’ll ring Travelabout first thing tomorrow,’ said George.

  ‘I imagine,’ drawled Les, ‘you’ve already taken my answer for granted.’

  Eddie grinned and handed Les an airline ticket from inside his leather jacket. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down. You’re on the twelve-thirty flight with Qantas tomorrow. You’re booked into the Southville in Collins Street. A limo’ll pick you up at the airport. I’ll be there Saturday afternoon around five. Call in to Gary’s and pick up the other bookings on your way to the airport tomorrow.’

  Price smiled and pushed two thousand dollars across his desk to Les.

  ‘And that should keep you in sandwiches and flavoured milk till you get back.’

  Les picked up the money and the airline ticket and pocketed them inside his jacket, next to the old letter. ‘Okay,’ he shrugged. ‘Like they say in Melbourne, no worries.’

  ‘The limo driver’s name’s Perry,’ said Eddie. ‘He’s a mate of mine. He’ll be coming with us on Saturday night. I’ll explain everything when I see you down there.’ Eddie smiled and wiggled his eyebrows. ‘You’ll like it.’

  ‘It couldn’t be any worse than nearly getting eaten by fuckin sharks,’ replied Les.

  ‘Okay,’ beamed Price, rubbing his hands together. ‘That’s set
tled.’ He picked up his drink and turned to Les. ‘Now, Les. What was it you wanted to see me about?’

  Les looked at Price. ‘See you about? Oh, yes. I was thinking about getting my place re-carpeted. And I was wondering who you used here? They did a terrific job.’

  Price turned to George. ‘George. You know who they are.’

  ‘Achmet’s Flying Carpet Service,’ said George. ‘I’ve got their card here somewhere.’

  ‘Unreal,’ said Norton. ‘Thanks, George.’

  They had one or two more drinks, then locked up the club and went their separate ways. Eddie told Les he’d see him in Melbourne. Les told the others he’d see them when he got back from Victoria, and drove home.

  Shortly after, Les was sitting in the kitchen at Chez Norton sipping on a mug of Ovaltine. The old letter was on the table in front of him next to the airline ticket and the two thousand dollars. Well, if that’s not divine intervention, he asked himself, what is? That nutty idea I had earlier has just fallen into my lap, thanks to you-know-who. And even if it is nutty, what have I got to lose? Six days living it up in Victoria, courtesy of Price. Les smiled and raised his mug. To divine intervention — and Price Galese of course.

  Les finished his Ovaltine, got changed and went to bed. As he buried his head into the pillows, he briefly pondered what clothes he should take. Knowing Victoria, plenty of warm ones. Les gave a final yawn and before long he was snoring peacefully.

  Friday was mild and clear when Les got out of bed around eight. He changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, cleaned up and walked into the kitchen. Warren was seated in a pair of jeans and a red and brown striped shirt, finishing a cup of coffee before he left for work.

  ‘G’day Woz,’ said Les. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Great,’ replied Warren. ‘I’m even starting to believe there is a God after all.’

  ‘Oh?’ replied Les. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Knife Edge’s bass player got electrocuted in Melbourne last night.’

  ‘Electrocuted? Shit! Is he dead?’

  ‘Unfortunately no. But they say he’s got a wonderful glow about him.’

  ‘You’re a bloody sadist.’ Les checked the plunger. The coffee was still warm so he poured himself a cup. ‘Anyway, talking about Melbourne, Woz. Can I borrow that suitcase of yours with the wheels on it?’

  ‘Sure. It’s under my bed. I’ll get it for you.’ Warren looked at Les. ‘What’s that got to do with Melbourne?’

  ‘Woz, I’m taking your advice. I’m flying to Melbourne. Renting a car. And I’m driving down to Lorne to find those paintings.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  Les took a sip of coffee and a faraway look appeared in his eyes. ‘Warren. I firmly believe that letter was more than just a letter. It was a message. A message from beyond. You say you’re starting to believe in God, Warren. Well, glory be. So am I. And God has spoken. Telling me to seek the path to Lorne, and find those paintings.’ Les stared fervently at Warren. ‘Woz. There’s a spiritual connection between me, Rosa-Marie Norton and those paintings. They were meant for me. And through the power of the Lord, and divine guidance, I’m going to take back what’s mine. Warren, I’m on a mission from God. Oh glory hallelujah!’

  Warren stared at Les in disbelief. ‘You’ve gone mad, you fuckin ratbag.’

  Les shook his head sincerely. ‘Nay Warren. Not mad. Just guided by unseen forces. Mysterious forces, Warren, that you and I know nothing about. Praise the Lord.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Warren.

  ‘Him too.’ Les took another sip of coffee. ‘Anyway, what are you blowing up about, you little prick? I won’t be back till Friday. That gives you and Clover a week to run around the house dressed up as Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun. And whatever else you get up to when I’m not here.’

  ‘I’ll get the suitcase.’ Warren went to his room and came back carrying a black suitcase with rollers and a folding handle and put it in the kitchen. ‘There you are, Frodo. That should help you on your quest. Do you want something to bring the paintings back in too, young hobbit?’

  ‘No, great wizard Gandalf. I’ll manage, thank you,’ replied Les.

  Warren glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I have to get to the pickle factory.’ He looked suspiciously at Norton. ‘You are going to Melbourne, aren’t you? This isn’t just a gee-up?’

  ‘Fuckin oath I am, sinner. Rosa-Marie’s calling out from heaven.’

  ‘Heaven? She was a fuckin devil-worshipper.’

  ‘Makes no difference to me. I’m on a mission from God.’

  Warren shook his head. ‘I’ll see you when you get back.’

  ‘See you then, Woz.’

  The door closed, Les opened the fridge and organised two toasted ham and tomato sandwiches. He ate them with another cup of coffee, then took Warren’s suitcase into his room, put it on the bed and started filling it with whatever he thought he’d need for the trip, including his mini-ghetto blaster. Halfway through packing, Les thought of something and looked at his watch. He walked out to the lounge room, found the number still sitting next to the phone and dialled Melbourne.

  ‘Hello, Obelisk Bookshop. Kenneth Raymond speaking.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s Les Norton in Sydney. I ordered that book off you about Rosa-Marie Norton.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Norton. I remember.’

  ‘Don’t bother sending it. I’m coming down to Melbourne on business. I’ll pick it up.’

  ‘Oh all right, Mr Norton.’

  ‘I might even call in this afternoon.’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Les hung up and went back to his bedroom.

  Norton finished packing, had a quick shower then changed into a pair of jeans, a denim shirt and his blue cotton bomber jacket. He checked to make sure he had his travel documents and everything else, put them in his overnight bag and rang a taxi. It didn’t take long to arrive. Les had a last look around the house then locked up, took his luggage out to the taxi and gave the driver directions how to get to Travelabout in Clovelly and to wait outside. Gary was seated at his desk opposite the two girls in their red uniforms, looking his dapper self in a maroon shirt and a blue silk tie. He smiled his usual warm smile when Les walked in and sat down.

  ‘So what have you got for me, Gary?’ asked Les.

  ‘Mate. For about an hour’s notice I’ve got you the grouse. I’ve booked you into the Otway Plaza Resort in Lorne. Your own modern apartment just across from the beach. The Erskine Hotel’s on the opposite corner.’

  ‘Sounds all right,’ said Les.

  ‘And you pick up a Mitsubishi Magna from Thrifty at twelve o’clock on Sunday. You know where you’re staying and all that?’

  ‘Yeah. Eddie gave me my ticket last night. You wouldn’t have a map showing how to get to Lorne, would you?’

  ‘Sure have.’ Gary handed Les two brochures and a folder. ‘There you go. Everything you need’s in there.’

  Les took the folder and stood up. ‘Thanks Gary.’

  ‘Have a lovely time in Victoria, Les,’ smiled Gary. ‘The garden state.’

  ‘No worries.’ Les walked back to the taxi and they drove on to Kingsford Smith Airport.

  There were no dramas checking in. Les bought the Telegraph and next thing he was in the Qantas Club, seated on a comfortable lounge chair, reading the paper, checking out the punters and stuffing himself with tea, sandwiches and little pieces of cake. Eventually, it was time to board QF 283 for Melbourne. Les grabbed a lolly on the way out and next thing he was sitting in business class sipping a mineral water.

  By the time Les finished his mineral water the plane was airborne and a flight attendant handed him a menu. Les was that full of sandwiches and cake he didn’t bother to look at it. Instead he went through the two maps Gary had given him. Lorne wasn’t far from Melbourne. Through Geelong and follow the road past Torquay. Apollo Bay was a little further on. Fitzroy wasn’t far from his hotel in Melbourne. He had plenty of time to pick up his book a
fter he checked in. Les put his maps away, asked the attendant for another mineral water and took out the book he was reading. Hell’s Angel: The Life and Times of Sonny Barger and the Hell’s Angels Motorcycle Club. By the time the plane was getting ready to land, Les was convinced Sonny and his Hell’s Angels were just a fun-loving bunch of lads who liked to take dope, sell dope, bash, stab and kill people and root sheilas and have barbecues. The only time Sonny ever got mildly upset was when somebody from another club stole his motorbike. So Sonny and his friends went over to the other club, bull-whipped each member one at a time, bashed them with spiked dog collars and broke their fingers with ballpeen hammers. Then stole their bikes, sold them and disbanded their club. The Angels even had a member called Norton Bob. How good was that? Les put his book away, got off the plane and walked to the baggage collection. Well, here I am in Melbourne, he thought, as he passed an advertisement for Four’N Twenty Pies.

  At the bottom of the stairs were several limo drivers in black suits and caps holding signs, with one saying NORTON. The driver was in his forties and not as tall as Les, but very stocky, with a hard face and eyes like onyx ball bearings. His suit was immaculately cut and he was wearing three hundred dollar Mellers shoes.

  ‘Are you Perry?’ said Les.

  ‘Yeah. You must be Les.’ The limo driver offered a quick smile and shook Norton’s hand. ‘Let’s get your luggage.’

  They followed the other passengers around to the carousel. When they got there, Norton’s bag was already on the conveyor behind several others.

  Les went to pick it up when Perry took it easily and nodded for Les to follow him. They stepped through the sliding glass doors then turned left towards a car park. It was cloudy outside, but Les was surprised at the heat; much warmer than Sydney and punishingly humid. When they came to the shiny black BMW limousine, Les had a sweat up, however Perry still looked cool when he placed Norton’s suitcase in the boot. He opened the back door and Les climbed into the beemer’s air-conditioned comfort.

  Les peered out the window as they drove along a flat stretch of open road and under a circled green and yellow sign saying CITY 43. Further on a sign to the left said BULLA RD and a blue sign said CITY SOUTH-EASTERN SUBURBS. Perry hardly spoke, but every now and again his mobile would ring. He’d listen, then whisper a few taciturn words. Watching in the rear-vision mirror, Les noticed the onyx ball bearings rarely moved more than a centimetre. They passed a long yellow girder jutting out over the road on the left, and on the right what looked like the bones of a gutted whale painted red. Les wasn’t sure if it was modern art or something that had fallen off a Jumbo jet.