Rosa-Marie's Baby

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Yes. Quite sad really,’ replied Ken quietly.

  ‘Yes it is,’ agreed Les.

  Les enjoyed talking to Kenneth Raymond. He was good-humoured and patently enthused in his world of old books and Rosa-Marie Norton. Plus he liked to share his knowledge with people. Especially any who were like-minded.

  Ken turned to the painting hanging on the wall behind the counter. ‘Poor Rosa. Apart from being a trifle eccentric, Les, she was just a brilliant artist. Years before her time.’

  ‘A female van Gogh,’ said Les.

  ‘Yes. That’s as good a description as any,’ agreed Ken.

  ‘And like van Gogh, she had trouble selling her paintings.’

  ‘Yes. Ironic isn’t it,’ said Ken. ‘And would you believe, Les, one of her paintings sold in Brisbane recently for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’

  Les gave Ken a double blink. ‘How … much did you say, Ken?’

  ‘One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’

  There was a movement at the doorway and an elderly lady dressed in all white walked in. She looked at Les then turned to Ken standing behind the counter.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Ken asked her.

  ‘I’m after a book of Beardsley prints,’ the woman said.

  Ken pointed to one corner in the shop. ‘Have a look over there, under B. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Les watched the woman shuffle off then turned to the owner. ‘Well, Ken,’ he said. ‘I’d better let you get back to work. Thanks for your help and everything.’

  ‘No worries, Les. It was a pleasure,’ smiled Ken. ‘How long before you go back to Sydney?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ replied Les.

  ‘Call in again if you’ve got time. I’ll be closing early tomorrow. We’re having a soiree here tomorrow night.’

  ‘A soiree?’ said Les.

  ‘Yes. Rare books and documents,’ replied Ken. ‘I’ve got one of Governor Phillip’s diaries. Sketches by Banks the botanist. Some original Henry Lawson manuscripts. All that sort of thing. Very wine and cheese and a little social. But,’ Ken shrugged and rubbed his hands together, ‘it should turn a nice dollar.’

  ‘Oh. Well good luck with it.’ Les shook the owner’s hand again. ‘Nice to have met you, Ken. I’ll see you again.’

  ‘You, too, Les. Enjoy yourself in Melbourne.’

  ‘I have so far.’ Les put the plastic bag in his overnight bag and left Ken to attend to the woman in white.

  There was a sudden screeching of brakes and the irritated beeping of a car horn as Les almost walked under a taxi crossing the street. He gave the cab driver a sheepish look and, still doing mental arithmetic, joined the other pedestrians walking along Brunswick Street. According to Norton’s reckoning, 150,000 × 3 equalled 450,000. His nutty idea didn’t sound so nutty after all. And that old bishop tossed two of her paintings in the river. One thing for sure, thought Les, when I get to Lorne, I’ll find out what happened to those bloody paintings. Even if I’ve got to knock on every door in the joint.

  Still plotting and scheming, Les walked on in the heat. Neatly dressed people were coming and going or seated in swish restaurants and coffee shops eating excellent cuisine while they sipped bottles of fine wine. Jewellery shops, music shops and clothes stores appeared to be doing good business and Les got another angle on Brunswick Street and its old-world charm. Double Bay with grunge. He stopped outside a trendoid clothing shop playing house music loud enough to give you internal bleeding and wiped the sweat from his eyes while he debated whether to take a couple of photos of Brunswick Street, when a tram suddenly clanged to a halt in front of him. There was a pool back at the hotel and more cold beers in the bar fridge. Les climbed aboard and when he was flung against the ticket machine after the tram took off, found another two dollars for his fare.

  Back at the hotel Les changed into his Speedos and shorts and took the lift down to the swimming pool. The open-air pool area was at the end of another long stretch of corridors overlooking the arcade and Les had it all to himself. The pool was only small, but there was a sauna, and a weight station with mirrors stood on a floor of astro-turf. He left his towel on a banana-lounge and started pushing and lifting various pulleys, then did a set of crunches and sit-ups. When he finished, Les gulped down several plastic cups of water then flopped his sweaty body into the pool and just drifted.

  Norton rolled on his back and spurted a mouthful of water into the air. Well, he thought, it’s kind of hard to believe I’m in Melbourne. And it’s harder to believe I’ve been tossed up in the air already. I wonder what Sonia’s story is? But what a nice bloke that Ken Raymond was. Bad luck he couldn’t lay any more informaish on me about those paintings. But at least now I’ve got my own book on Rosa-Marie Norton. Les closed his eyes, duck-dived to the bottom of the shallow pool and came up again. So what will I do now? I could go and check out the punters and the office girls. But I don’t really feel like sitting in the heat and car fumes drinking coffee. And I don’t feel like plonking my arse down in a smoky bar and getting half pissed either. It’s not getting any earlier. Why don’t I stay in my air-conditioned room, have a few cool ones, then order up some food and watch TV? Later on take a taxi or the ‘bread and jam’ back up to Brunswick Street and see what goes on there at night? I won’t have a late one, though. I’d better be on the ball when Eddie arrives tomorrow. Les flopped around in the pool till a shy young Japanese couple joined him, followed by a pale, flabby businessman with a comb-over like several tufts of flattened roadkill sitting on his head. Norton smiled, let them have the pool and returned to his room.

  After a shave and a shower, Les got back into his shorts and T-shirt, got a Crown Lager from the bar fridge and looked at the in-room dining menu. He went for a caesar salad, braised lamb shanks with veg and mash, sticky date pudding with butterscotch sauce and ice-cream plus coffee and rolls. Room service said that shouldn’t be long. Les finished his first beer then had a bottle of Heineken and switched the TV on. By the time he’d finished his Heineken the food arrived. Les tipped the girl two bucks and ripped in.

  There wasn’t much on TV. Les checked the in-house movies and settled on Monsters Inc. For an animated movie, it was an absolute hoot and the take-outs at the end were an even bigger hoot. But the look on the little girl’s face when the big monster frightened her, almost brought a tear to Norton’s eye. Les got involved in the movie and by the time it finished, he’d knocked over another Heineken plus three mini-bottles of vodka and bourbon. He switched off the TV, pushed his dinner tray into the corridor then changed into a pair of Levis and the light blue T-shirt Grace had given him with a dark blue, short-sleeved hemp shirt over the top. He gave himself a last detail, got his camera and took the lifts down to the foyer. There was a taxi waiting out the front. Les piled in and before he knew the driver let him out in Brunswick Street, opposite the old hotel he’d noticed earlier.

  The street had really come to life now. There were people everywhere and when Les walked into the large bar area of the hotel it was packed. He squeezed through the crowd, ordered a delicious and checked out the punters. They were all around thirty, casually dressed and what you’d expect to see in any popular hotel, anywhere in Australia. Two dumpy girls, one wearing a Union Jack T-shirt, the other a black vest and matching headband, commented on Norton’s T-shirt. They were English tourists and pleasant to talk to. But it was just too hot and noisy in the hotel. Les bought them a drink and took their photo, then said he might catch up with them later and drifted off into the night.

  After that Les roamed from bar to bar. They were all good, the people were friendly, plenty of attractive girls and the drinks were okay. There was no hassles about having to eat. You just walked in, had a delicious or three and walked out again. Billy was right when he said Melbourne had a good night scene.

  Les lost count of how many bourbons he had roaming from bar to bar. But he was getting quite a glow up when he wandered into one that
reminded him of Florida, and the old bordello they’d turned into a bar in Siestasota. Crystal chandeliers sparkled from under a red ceiling and gilt-edged mirrors and old paintings decorated the maroon walls. Antique furniture and plush velvet curtains added to the bar’s elegance, and near the entrance was a beautiful fish tank surrounded by statues of Grecian women supporting urns filled with healthy indoor plants. Les got another delicious and noticed three people, two men and an older woman, sitting on a red velvet lounge under a frilly white lamp. One man, wearing a gold lamé suit and a pink shirt, had his face painted like a geisha and a pair of red horns on his head. The other man was wearing a multi-coloured kaftan and a snug, brightly feathered hat. His face was painted white also, except for a wide area across his eyes squared off in light blue and edged with red. The woman was wearing an emerald green crushed velvet dress adorned with layers of coloured beads. Les couldn’t help himself. He walked straight up, said he was from Sydney and would they mind if he took their photo? They were only too delighted. Les snapped off two photos, thanked them, took a couple of the fish tank then finished his delicious and left.

  Les ended up in The Bar With No Name. It was smaller and quieter than the others with comfortable old lounges and soft lights. Les got one more delicious and as it was going down, decided it was time to sling his hook. He told himself earlier he’d go easy. But Brunswick Street was such a good scene, what could he do? He finished his delicious and walked outside to get a taxi just as a tram pulled up. This’ll do, thought Les, and climbed aboard, grabbing hold of a strap before he got speared into the ticket machine. While he fumbled around for a two-dollar coin, Les checked things out. There was only a handful of people seated up front. But sprawled at the rear were ten members of a pseudo-American street gang, dressed in baggy jeans, sloppy T-shirts, Snoopy Dog jackets, caps on back to front and gym boots. They were all around eighteen and full of attitude, and the only difference Les could tell from street gangs he’d seen in Sydney was this lot had pimplier faces and paler skin. A tall dark-haired one seated in front with his legs stuck out wearing baggy black jeans and a St Kilda FC cap, appeared to be the leader. A couple of the gang gave Les an indifferent once up and down, then ignored him. Les gave the gang a desultory once over and decided to ignore them as well. He fumbled around some more for a two-dollar coin, then didn’t bother. If he got pinched for fare evasion, stiff shit.

  The tram rattled and clanged on into the night, some people got off, then two stops later another street gang got on. They were dressed much the same as the gang already on the tram and they also appeared to have a tall dark-haired one as leader; only he was wearing baggy denim shorts and a Hawthorn FC cap. The two gang leaders made eye contact and from the ‘giddy-up’ it was obvious there was no love lost between the two gangs.

  The leader of the first gang leapt to his feet. ‘What the fuck are you doin’ here?’ he scowled.

  ‘Fuck you cunt,’ the leader of the second gang scowled back.

  Les remembered Eddie once saying that when it came to hostilities and violence in Melbourne, they didn’t muck around with Mexican stand-offs. The leader of the second gang aimed up a right-cross and punched the leader of the first gang straight in the mouth, splitting his lip. St Kilda cap cursed and immediately came back with a straight left, giving Hawthorn cap a bloody nose. Once the reception formalities were over, it was choose your partner and dance.

  The two gangs ripped into each other at the back of the tram in a fury of punches, kicks, knees and elbows, with Norton hanging from a strap in the middle. They were all evenly matched and although they weren’t inflicting any serious injuries, they were giving each other plenty of split lips, bloody noses, black eyes and ripped clothes. Hey, this is all right, thought Les, and whipped out his camera. He got off two photos when instinct made him turn around just as a member of the second gang threw a quick right and punched him in the jaw. It stung and Les didn’t like it. In return, Les threw a wicked short right that was nothing like any of the other punches being thrown in the tram. It slammed into the kid’s face, knocking out all his front teeth, before dumping him on his backside out cold. Half full of bourbon and livened up from the whack on the jaw, Les thought he might as well join in the festivities, too. He slung his camera round his neck, hung off the strap with one hand and started belting gang members from both sides with the other; they were all too busy fighting to see who was doing all the damage.

  Les sunk a right into another kid, pulverising his bony jaw. The unfortunate gang member slid down the one he was fighting, who looked up, straight into another short right from Les that smashed the kid’s nose across his face and dumped him out cold on the floor of the tram, along with the others. Two gang members were wrestling around in front of Les. Les sunk a short right into one’s ribs and smiled as he felt them crack under his fist and heard a howl of pain from the hapless gang member. The kid slumped to the floor gasping for breath as Les changed hands on the strap and smashed a left hook into the other kid’s face ripping apart his lips. Blood dribbling down his chin, the kid bounced off the gang members fighting behind him into another left from Norton that opened his right eyebrow to the bone. Les watched him fall to the floor then punched another gang member in the kidneys. The kid snapped to his feet, Les swapped hands on the strap again and decked him from behind with a right backfist, dislocating the kid’s neck.

  Les didn’t feel like a hero thumping into the gang members. Quite the opposite if anything. They were all too busy fighting each other to know what was going on and he was bigger than any of them. But he and Billy had seen smartarse street gangs strutting around Bondi and Kings Cross causing trouble, and they always felt like sorting a few of them out. So although it mightn’t have felt brave flattening one gang member after another, shit, it felt good.

  Les swung around on the strap and sunk his right boot into one kid’s balls then brought his knee up into his face, smashing his nose and knocking out several teeth. A spray of blood hit Norton and as the gang member hit the deck, his opponent looked up and saw who did it. Les poked his fingers in the kid’s eyes, then kneed him in the balls. From side on Les left-hooked another gang member in the ear. Seeing stars, the kid wobbled and reached out with his left hand to hold onto a seat. Les grabbed the gang member’s arm, brought his right knee up and broke it at the elbow. The kid yelped then fell down amongst the other gang members moaning and bleeding all over the floor.

  The people up front had been yelling for the driver to stop the tram. But he kept going and the tram lurched down Collins Street. Les decked another three gang members and the fighting began to slow down, except for the two gang leaders still going for it in the aisle hammer and tongs. Les grabbed the pair of them by the scruff of the neck, pulled them apart and banged their faces together, smashing both their noses. Then he whacked their heads together, splitting Hawthorn cap’s scalp open before dropping them on the floor with the others. The remaining gang members stopped fighting and stared at Les like he was The Thing when it smashed through the door of the ice station in the old movie he saw with Warren. Les looked down at the blood and broken bodies lying around him on the floor and figured it might be a good time to split. He turned to the gang members still staring at him in horror and took out his camera.

  ‘Righto fellahs. How about a smile.’

  Les took several photos of the gang members left on their feet and the ones lying on the floor, when the tram came to a stop near Melbourne Town Hall. The door opened, Les climbed over the bodies and stepped out. Coming up the road he could see police uniforms. Les went round the back of the tram and quickly crossed Collins Street, ducked over Swanston then hurried down Collins Street to the hotel, past the porter standing outside the lobby and into a waiting lift. The bar upstairs was empty, the woman at reception had her back turned and Les stepped into the lift. A few minutes later he was safely in his room.

  Les didn’t need any more booze. He got a bottle of mineral water and had a look at himself in t
he bathroom mirror. Apart from a few sore knuckles and a bruise on his jaw, he didn’t have a scratch on him. But blood had spattered down his jeans and onto his T-shirt. Les stripped off, threw them in the shower and got in. He rinsed out all the blood then gave himself a good scrub and hung his clothes up on the pull-out line above the bath. After changing into a clean pair of jox and a T-shirt, he sat down on the bed, yawned and stared at the floor. Now that he’d settled down, Les realised how much booze he’d drunk. He yawned again then turned out the lights and got under the bed covers. That’s another bloody thing, he pondered as he shoved his head into the pillows. The last time I was down here and caught a tram at night, I ended up in a fight. Les gave his head a shake. I don’t know. It’s got me stuffed. Next thing, he was snoring.

  Les woke up late the next morning and a bit seedy. He climbed out of bed, got a bottle of mineral water from the bar fridge and switched on the electric jug. He saw his camera sitting next to the TV, rubbed his jaw and half smiled when he recollected the previous night’s events. After getting cleaned up, he climbed into his Speedos and old shorts and made a cup of instant coffee, which went down well with a hotel biscuit. A run to sweat out last night’s drink would have gone well. Instead, Les went down to the pool area, did a few sit-ups and stretches by himself and had a sauna. When he got out, he could smell the stale booze trickling down his body before he splashed into the pool. Starting to feel half human again, Les went back to his room and changed into his blue cargoes and a white Rip Curl T-shirt, ready for breakfast. He got his cap and sunglasses, tossed his overnight bag across his shoulder and caught the lift down to the lobby.

  It was hot outside and Melbourne’s CBD had come to life. Cars and trams were honking and clanging along the streets and crowds of people were cruising the footpaths. Over from the hotel was a small arcade. Les wandered across the road and walked inside. It was mainly clothing or jewellery stores before it angled right into a narrow lane with several cafes on either side. Les chose one with small round marble tables and wicker chairs outside and ordered scrambled eggs, bacon and a flat white from a waiter in a red T-shirt. The food arrived and there was plenty of it. But the chef had scrambled the eggs in an oily pan and they didn’t go down too well in the heat. While he was eating, Les decided not to tell Eddie about what had happened last night or about the girl in the hotel. Knowing Eddie, he’d probably start banging on her door wanting a piece of the action, and it wouldn’t have been any laughing matter if Les had got picked up after what happened on the tram. He had another coffee to cut the greasy eggs, paid the bill and walked back round to Collins Street. He had a quick look around, adjusted his cap and sunglasses and decided to spend a leisurely day shopping and wandering around the CBD before Eddie arrived.