Robert G. Barrett was raised in Bondi where he has worked mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career as a writer.
Also by Robert G. Barrett in Pan
YOU WOULDN’T BE DEAD FOR QUIDS THE REAL THING THE BOYS FROM BINJIWUNYAWUNYA THE GODSON DAVO’S LITTLE SOMETHING WHITE SHOES, WHITE LINES AND BLACKIE AND DE FUN DON’T DONE MELE KALIKIMAKA MR WALKER THE DAY OF THE GECKO RIDER ON THE STORM AND OTHER BITS AND BARRETT GUNS ’N’ ROSÉ
ROBERT G.
BARRETT
Between The Devlin
and the
Deep Blue Seas
This is a work of fiction and all characters in this book are a creation of the author’s imagination
First published 1991 by Pan Macmillan Publishers Australia This edition published in 1994 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited 1 Market Street, Sydney
Reprinted 1992 (twice), 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2001, 2003, 2006, 2008
Copyright © Robert G
Barrett 1991
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Data:
Barrett, Robert G Between Devlin and the deep Blue Seas.
ISBN 9780330272308.
EPUB ISBN: 9781743548974
I. Title.
A823.3
Typeset in 10/11 pt Times Roman by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
This book is dedicated to Midnight Oil. Because the oils are oils. And always will be.
As usual the author is contributing a percentage of his royalties to the environmental organisation, Greenpeace.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author would like to thank the following people for their help with this book:
Jens Ward, senior journalist at People magazine, Sydney.
David Winterflood, J.P. Sydney.
Dr. John Kearney, M.B.B., F.R.A.C.C.P., Sydney
And my barber, Karyn Booth, at Bateau Bay, NSW.
By rights it should have been all doom and gloom in Price Galese’s office at the Kelly Club on that pleasant Saturday evening, the last day in October. A warm, balmy evening that was now fast approaching 4 am on Sunday morning the first of November. After all the Kelly Club was closing down and it was the end of an era so to speak. An era of illegal gambling, corruption, murders, associated crime and vast profits going into a certain grey haired gentleman’s pockets. But still, the end of an era no less.
Not wanting to panic his faithful staff any more than necessary, Price had told them as they left a little earlier than usual that it would probably only be for two weeks; another political hiccup so to speak. They were all paid accordingly and told to ring George Brennan in a fortnight, he’d tell them what was going on. In the meantime have a nice holiday on the boss. But in the plush seclusion of his office amongst his inner core Price had told the boys it would be for at least a month, and this time more than likely for good. The Kelly Club had rolled its last dice, spun its last wheel, bribed its last cop and politician. It was enough to make you cry. Good, honest, hard working Australian men all about to lose their jobs through no real fault of their own, and employment prospects in Sydney at the present time were rather skinny to say the least. Plus who would give you a decent job in Sydney when your last job reference said you worked in an illegal gambling casino for so many years. You couldn’t exactly hope to start a new career at McDonald’s or Coles or the ANZ Bank. It was truly a bloody sad picture all round. Yet why the levity?
George Brennan’s double chins were working overtime as he laughed his way through vodka and tonic about number ten. Eddie Salita was happily devouring rusty nails. Billy was chortling away while he gave a bottle of Old Grandad an awful nudge and Les Norton was tipping stubbies of Fourex down his throat like he was expecting a brewery strike. Even Price, destitution and ruin staring him in the face in his twilight years was cracking all sorts of jokes as a bottle of Dimple Haig got lower and lower and going on as if he didn’t give a stuff. It was a funny one all right.
Of course the boys had known something a little more serious than usual was in the air when Price had told them earlier in the week that they’d be closing down and had added to expect to have a bit of a late drink on Saturday night, which was why Billy and Les had left their cars at home. But then again, they’d heard it all before. The Kelly Club was always closing up for a few nights or a week here and there. And Price was always saying that this was definitely it. But no one was really expecting a month, and this time Price did seem a little more sincere than usual when he said that this time was definitely it. So there was absolutely no need for levity. No need at all.
‘So this is definitely it, eh, Price?’ said Billy Dunne, easing back in his seat after pouring himself another quadruple Old Grandad and Coke.
‘Yep. ’Fraid so, Billy, old mate,’ replied Price. He looked at Billy over the top of his glass and tried not to smile. ‘We’re goners, the lot of us. Gowings.’
‘Yeah, but fair dinkum, Price,’ said Les. ‘How many times have we heard this now? Eight hundred?’ Norton shook his head and took another slurp of beer and looked around the room. ‘I’ve been booked on cruise ships, got ready to go on camping trips in the bush — even lined meself up to take a sheila out. And then ring ring. On the phone. “Les. Les, old mate. It’s Price. It’s all sweet. I need you here tomorrow night.”’ Norton took another drink and grinned at his boss. ‘This’ll be the same. You wait and see.’
Price smiled at the Queenslander’s cheeky, if not blunt honesty and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said seriously. This time it’s different. I got the drum from right up the top. And it’s one hundred per cent we’ll be closed for a month.’ The grey-haired casino owner eased back in his seat and let his eyes run round the room. ‘There’s gonna be a change of government in this State soon. I know for sure. The mob that’s in don’t want to win the next election anyway. You only got to look at the mug they’ve shoved in as premier since shitbags bailed out. He’s got as much charisma as a dead cat. I wouldn’t give him my vote if he promised me a bigger dick.’ Price took a sip on his Scotch and soda ‘They’ll let the other mob carry the can for a while — who are no better anyway. And seeing as there’s no way this new pack of dummies can fix up the mess this State is in they’ll get behind their favourite old smokescreen...’
‘Law and order,’ butted in Eddie.
‘That’s right,’ nodded Price. ‘Just like they’ve been doing lately. Which comes straight back on...’ He made a helpless gesture with his hands.
‘Can’t you get to them though?’ asked Billy. ‘And the coppers?’
‘I already have, Billy,’ replied Price. ‘And they don’t particularly want to close me down. But they’re just gonna have to. I mean, they’re only out to get whatever earn they can while they’re in. But you can’t get to everyone. I mean, I’ve done my best. I’ve corrupted more than my share. But there’s just some cops out there too fuckin’ dumb to take a sling. The dopey pricks.’
‘What?’ said Les, blinking over the top of his stubbie. ‘You mean to tell me there’s actually some honest cops in NSW?’
&n
bsp; ‘Yeah,’ nodded Price, trying not to laugh. ‘Not very many. But they’re out there. Like a fuckin’ cancer, eating away at the decent ones I can get to. Bastards.’
‘Christ?’joked Les. ‘An honest cop in NSW.’ He shook his head. ‘I never thought I’d see the day.’
‘You’d need to be Sherlock Holmes to find them,’ chuckled George. ‘But they are out there.’
Norton shook his head again. He finished his beer and rose to get another one. ‘So what do you reckon you’ll do, Price?’ he asked from behind the bar. ‘If — and it’s a big if — if this does mean the end?’
‘Probably take a well-earned rest,’ smiled his boss. ‘Just concentrate on my horses. To tell you the truth I’m sick of looking at coppers and politicians and sick of giving them half my hard-earned money just for not doing their job. The pricks. And I’m getting sick of gambling too. I’ve been at it over twenty years. One thing’s for sure,’ he added, nodding his drink for emphasis. ‘I’m not gonna start playing Russian Poker. They can stick that in their arse.’
A collective shudder ran round the room. The boys had seen Russian Poker in some of the places that had changed over to it. It was a cross between Manilla, baccarat and poker and was played predominantly by Asians, most of whom were suffering Vietnamese refugees down to their last quarter of a million dollars worth of gold bars and diamonds they’d managed to escape with when they fled oppression. The places stayed open twenty-four hours a day; and the Asian punters, who all hated each other’s particular nationality, chased one big bundle of money that changed hands every week. You won it and you were Jack the lad or Trang the lad, as the case might be, till you did it all back and the bundle went round again.
In the meantime they’d break into a house in their own community, rip the owners off to get a stake to get going again. The people whose houses got broken into were mostly shonks themselves, and rarely called the police. There was no glamour attached and guns, knives and drug money were the order of the day. The Russian Poker joints stayed open only because of some flimsy loophole in the gaming act. Villain and all that he was, Price would have no part of it.
‘Anyway,’ smiled Price, ‘I’ve managed to put a few miserable shillings aside over the years, so I’ll survive somehow. If I go bad I can always get another milk run. I might even sell hot dogs outside Souths Juniors on fight nights.’ He chuckled as he took another sip of his drink. ‘Anyway, who gives a stuff about a poor old mug like me?’ he said, glancing around the room. ‘At least I don’t think anybody here’ll starve.’ Price caught Norton’s eye. ‘What about you, old fella? What are you gonna do now that we’ve all fallen on tough times? You reckon you can survive without old Uncle Price to look after you?’
‘Look after me?’ snorted Les. ‘Hah! I’m lucky I’m still fuckin’ alive after working here.’ He took a drink and looked directly at George Brennan. ‘No, I’ll go up to the CES, get on the jam-roll. Let them find me a job.’
‘You would too, you miserable drop kick,’ George Brennan almost shouted. ‘You would have the hide to apply for the fuckin’ dole. And blow up if they didn’t give it to you.’
‘And why not?’ Norton looked defiant. ‘I’m a worker being laid off. I pay my taxes. I’m entitled to it.’
‘Entitled to it?’ snorted George. ‘What have you got your occupation down as. Head-crusher?’
‘No. Public relations. My accountant over at Double Bay has got me a tax file number and I’m listed as working in public relations. Same as Billy. Ain’t that right, old mate?’ said Les, turning to his workmate.
‘Yep,’ nodded Billy Dunne sagely. ‘That’s us. Meeters and greeters — as in public relations.’
‘Meeters and greeters,’ sniggered Eddie Salita. ‘Between the two of you, you’ve made more work for the nurses and interns in the casualty ward at St Vincents than twenty years of natural disasters. Johnson and Johnson should give you a medal each.’
‘About the same amount of work as you’ve supplied for the local funeral trade, Edward,’ replied Norton evenly.
Eddie grinned and pointed a finger at Les. He was going to say something but he didn’t bother.
From then on it was non-stop bagging and everybody copped it, as more bottles of booze went steadily down and the level of laughter went steadily up. It was well after six and the sun was bright in the sky when they all fell roaring out of the Kelly Club, mule, stinking drunk. And it was closer to seven when Les got out of the taxi he and Billy had somehow managed to catch between them.
And it was close to two when Les got out of bed on Sunday, barely able to open his eyes, his tongue feeling like you could strike matches on it and a hangover that big you would have been flat out fitting it inside an aircraft hangar.
Jesus bloody Christ!, thought Norton, holding his head as he stumbled from his bedroom to the bathroom and out to the back verandah. How sick do you have to be to die?
The sun was beating down from a beautiful clear blue sky. It was a perfect summer’s day — perfect for going to the beach, picnicking or just being outside. Four seconds of it was enough for Les. With the sunlight coming at his eyes like a First World War bayonet charge, he retreated back into the kitchen and put the kettle on. There was no sign of Warren, but an ‘office memo’ next to the fruit bowl on the kitchen table told of his feelings: Do you have to make so much fuckin’ noise when you come home in the morning. You fuckin’ big goose. It’s like sharing a house with Frankenstein.
Norton laughed as he screwed up the note and tossed it into the bin. But even a few seconds of laughter made the pain in his head worse. He beat another retreat into the bathroom and rummaged round until he found Warren’s packet of Panadol Fortes. Shit, how many of these do you take again? I reckon three ought to do. He got them down with a glass of water, thought for a moment they were going to come straight back up, but when they didn’t, went back to the kitchen to make a mug of coffee with plenty of honey in it.
Now what happened again last night, and why am I so bloody crook? he reflected into his coffee. It was an easy enough night out the front; there were no stinks. The staff all went home early, along with the punters. Then it started to come back. Ohh yeah, that’s right. I ended up drinking every bottle of Fourex in the office then me and Billy finished off that first bottle of Old Grandad and another one. That Coca Cola’s got a lot to do with it too.
Half an hour later, the Panadols had started to work, the coffee stayed down and although Les still felt tired and completely shithouse, at least the pain had gone. He decided to walk down to the beach and have a swim. The walk might do him good and it’d be useless trying to find a parking spot on Sunday afternoon. He climbed gingerly into a pair of shorts, T-shirt and thongs and set off, still squinting uncomfortably through a pair of dark sun-glasses.
Bondi Beach wasn’t all that crowded but there were plenty of people sitting on the grass or walking around the shops. Norton found a spot on the sand just up from the south end next to the wall with a little shade. He had intended going down the north end where he knew a few people in the surf club but decided at the last minute that conversation might not quite be on the agenda this particular Sunday.
The water didn’t look too polluted. The nor’easter seemed to be blowing most of the ‘murk’ into Bronte and Tamarama. Oh well, Les thought, walking down to the water’s edge, legionnaire’s disease, anthrax, even bubonic plague couldn’t make me feel any worse than I did earlier. He made a mental sign of the cross and plunged in. Despite the germs, industrial waste and pollution, the water still felt good. He flopped around for a while and even caught a few small swells onto the beach. After a while he lay on the water’s edge checking out the punters and perving on the girls sunbathing topless. But his heart wasn’t really in it and he still felt tired and hungover. What he needed was a feed, a rest, then a good night’s sleep; it was getting late anyway. He had a shower, got some takeaway Chinese and two litres of orange juice and headed for the cool, darkened sanctity of Ma
ison Norton in Cox Avenue. It was a day completely wasted.
The soya sauce chicken and fried rice went down well, as did the orange juice. All I need now, thought Les, feeling a little better, is a nice early night. Shit, I’ll be getting plenty of those from now on he mused, as he watched some travel documentary about the Himalayas on Channel Two. The gravity of what last night was all about and some of the things Price had said were starting to come back to him. He was thinking heavily on this when the sound of the front door opening told him Warren had come home.
‘G’day, mate,’ he said, as Warren walked into the lounge. ‘I got your note. Thanks.’
Warren stood there staring at him. ‘You know what time it was when you got home this morning?’
Norton nodded. ‘Roughly.’
‘It sounded like Jesse the elephant coming through the front door.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘You fell over in the hall. You nearly slammed the front door off its hinges. You knocked over the bowl of fruit in the kitchen; plus all the dishes draining next to the sink. You left every light in the house on. And you pissed all over the floor in the bathroom. You’ve certainly got some style, haven’t you? Even for a fuckin’ bush Queenslander.’ Norton’s face coloured and he gave a self conscious smile. ‘You were still snoring and farting your head off when I left here at one o’clock. The girl I was with said she’d never seen anything quite like it. And she used to work on a pig farm up on the Darling Downs.’
‘Thanks, Woz. You’re a real pal.’
Warren continued to stare at Norton, then wrinkled up his nose. ‘You still smell of stale piss too.’ He continued to stare at him as Les tried to concentrate on the TV to try and hide his embarrassment. ‘So what was the big occasion? You win the lottery or something?’
Norton kept staring at the TV. ‘I’m out of work.’
Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas Page 1
