Norton then walked over to the now terrified Quigley and grabbed him by the T-shirt. ‘Now, arsehole. You’re gonna put an assault charge on me are you? Well we might as well make it a good one, mightn’t we?’
Norton strode back out to Layton still laying with his back against the wall. Quigley’s partner in crime threw his arms in front of his face just as Norton’s fist caught him above the eye, splitting it to the bone. Layton gasped with pain as the blood bubbled out and Les could hear the two waitresses scream. He brought back his fist and drove a short right straight into Mitner’s face, almost disintegrating his nose in a shower of blood and splintered bone. Norton gave him another one in the mouth and Layton let out an awful scream as all his front teeth caved in and his lips burst all over his face like an overripe plum. Layton had lost interest now, but Les kicked him in the solar plexus, then dragged his blood-spattered, unconscious body to its feet and flung him out amongst the bottles and boxes in the yard. There was a crashing and tinkling of broken glass and that was the end of Layton. He just lay there and bled onto the concrete and broken glass.
Smiling fiendishly, Norton walked over to Quigley who was propped horrified in the doorway and shoved him back into the kitchen through the two waitresses behind him who had suddenly sobered up somewhat. ‘Now, prick features. How would you like to be next?’
Quigley didn’t know what to do. He just stood there staring at Norton then he began to shake. Layton was laying out in the backyard looking like dogmeat, the two waitresses were ready to leg it, leaving Quigley alone in the kitchen with fourteen stone of enraged Queenslander whom he’d been treating like a piece of shit for three nights. If the dope-dealing owner had never prayed before, he certainly was now.
Les gave Quigley a bitter once up and down and felt like spitting on him. ‘You know when I think about it, you’re not even worth belting. You weak cunt. When dope dealers can go running to the cops, the place is fucked. But I’ll tell you something.’ Norton jabbed his finger in Quigley’s chest. ‘Even if you don’t, there’s a fuckin’ big chance I will. I know a couple of detectives that’d love to get their hands on a pair of cunts like you and your mate out the back. And don’t worry about your uncle in Randwick Council. I might ring the board of health. They’ll close this shit fight of a joint down in five minutes.’ Quigley was still shaking. He flinched as Norton suddenly raised his hand. ‘Now, smartarse. You owe me five hours pay. Give it to me.’
Quigley swallowed hard, then fumbled into the black metal money box, grabbed fifty dollars and thrust it at Les. ‘That’s near enough,’ he spluttered.
Norton snatched the money and shoved it into his jeans. ‘Thanks.’ He brought his fist up to give Quigley a backhander, then changed his mind. He peeled off his sweatband, tossed it in his overnight bag and headed for the door. As he reached it a young surfie appeared who Norton vaguely remembered from Thursday night because of his spiky blond hair. ‘G’day, mate,’ said Norton pleasantly. ‘What do you want? Some hash or speed?’
Norton’s face was also familiar to the surfie so he thought everything was cool. ‘Ohh, just a bag of goey, man.’
‘Come right in, mate.’ Les then turned round to Quigley. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, Robert. You’ve got a customer. Why don’t you take him and show him the drug smorgasbord out in the dining room?’ Norton glared once more at Quigley then left; if the fly screen had been there he would have slammed it.
Back in his car, Norton’s anger subsided as did the pent-up rage he had for Layton and he couldn’t help but laugh. He’d certainly settled the score with both him and Quigley; the spatters of blood along with blobs of demi-glace on his T-shirt were proof enough of that. He stared out of the windscreen and wondered what to do. It looked like he’d blown his alibi by about an hour, but maybe not. He could still prove where he was that night. He had another look at his T-shirt. I suppose I should go home and have a shower. I can’t really go anywhere looking like this. There was an old blue sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out laying on the back seat. It was an old training sweatshirt Les had forgotten was in the car, but at least it was cleaner than what he had on. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment, then another strange smile crept over his face. He reached in the back for the sweatshirt. No, fuck going home. Why don’t I go to a party? He looked at his watch: ten forty-five. And I’d better hurry too. There’s a big chance it’ll be all over in three-quarters of an hour.
The band’s first bracket went till ten, then they took a thirty-minute break. The crowd had gone wild — the Heathen Harlots had rocked their tits off. During the break Dapto noticed Gwen fiddling around with the cassettes and was more than happy to find she was getting it all down on tape. He didn’t say anything then, but already Dapto’s rock ’n’ roll, man-with-the-big-cigar mind had the cassettes synched with the video he was shooting and sold and distributed worldwide. The Heathen Harlots Live At The Prince Charles Royal Gala Performance. Produced by Larry Dapto, distributed by Larry Dapto, T-shirts and posters by Larry Dapto and most of the profits going to Larry Dapto. The shot of Franulka flashing that sensational looking ted would sell 100,000 copies in outback Queensland alone.
After a few well-earned beers and a couple of joints to settle their nerves, the girls climbed back on stage to a rousing cheer from the audience which was close to 500 now. Brassy as they come and the ultimate showgirl Franulka flounced over to the mike and did a bit of a parody on something Mick Jagger had made famous.
‘Are we havin’ a good time?’ she asked, putting on a cockney accent. A great scream of approval went up from the crowd. ‘Well, I think I’ve just split my knickers,’ More howls and screams of approval. ‘You don’t want my knickers to fall down now, do you?’ The crowd — mainly the men — screamed their approval that loud you could have heard them in Wollongong. Franulka wiggled her tongue at the crowd, then turned to the band. ‘A one, a two, a one, two, three, four...’
They slipped straight into a thumping version of Ian Hunter’s ‘Big Time’. In five seconds the place was jumping again. They blitzed that, then did James Reyne’s ‘Rip It Up’, Aerosmith’s ‘Big Ten Inch’, Little Richard’s ‘The Girls Can’t Help It’. The crowd went insane. If they weren’t dancing themselves silly and having such a good time there would have been a riot.
There wasn’t a parking spot within cooee of Blue Seas Apartments and Les could hear the band as he topped Coogee Bay Road. Christ, he thought, as he detoured past the crowd around the empty Royal Hotel, what have I done? He found a parking spot on a bus stop down from the hospital in Avoca Street and walked. He got to the garage and stood up on the wall just as the girls tore into The Flamin’ Groovies’ ‘Jumpin’ In The Night’. Bloody hell, thought Les, watching the mass of dancing, shouting people — these sheilas are bloody good.
Over the heads of the crowd, Les could see that the band was set up far enough away from the flats for anyone to get hurt and they were facing towards Perouse Road, so nearly all the crowd was away from the flats too. The band’s power leads were gaffer-taped across the road and went straight into the laundry, just as Les had anticipated. Down the front he could see the hippies and there was no mistaking Sandra in her stone-washed jeans and black tank top. Yep, everyone was there and it was all going according to plan. Then an odd feeling struck Les as the music got to him and he noticed just what a great party it was turning out to be. If I’d have known it was going to be this good and those tarts could play like that, I’d have got Grigor to blow the joint at two-thirty.
The band finished that song and the crowd barely had time to get their breath back when the girls thumped into Lonnie Brooks’ ‘I Got Lucky Last Night’. Franulka did a couple more high kicks and the mob roared. Norton grinned to himself as he got a glimpse of purple knickers. Been there, done that. He rubbed at the bruises round his neck that were still healing up. And believe me, fellas, it ain’t quite worth it. A fair-haired bloke of about twenty was boogieing around with his girlfriend ne
xt to him. He caught Norton’s eye; Les winked and smiled back and the bloke offered him a bottle of beer from a carton of Tooheys Red sitting on the garage wall. Norton accepted one gratefully and thanked him.
‘Ripper party, mate,’ said the half-drunk bloke.
‘Reckon,’ agreed Norton. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘About an hour. Me and me girl was over the pub and heard the music. So we grabbed some piss and come over.’
‘I just finished work myself,’ said Les.
‘Yeah? Well, don’t worry about it, mate. ’Cause I reckon this party’s gonna go all night.’
Norton sipped his beer and gave the bloke an odd look. ‘Don’t bet on it.’
Les left the bloke and his girl to their dancing and moved in amongst the crowd a little closer to the stage. He could see Larry Dapto and his crew filming away but decided to give him a bit of a wide berth just in case. Yes, thought Les, sipping his beer as he looked around him, everything is going exactly to plan. When Les Norton throws a party, Les Norton throws a party. He glanced at his watch. Bad luck it’s gonna end in half an hour.
Norton blended in with the crowd and finished his beer. There was a carton of VB unattended on the ground; he managed to snooker a can and sucked on that as he moved among the crush of happy, dancing people. It was a sensational party, probably one of the best Les had ever been to. There were heaps of girls, everybody was out to have a good time and the Heathen Harlots must have pulled something special out for the occasion because their performance was nothing short of thaumaturgic. Franulka and the girls were dynamite as they pranced and boogied around the makeshift stage, while behind them Isla was laying down a backbeat on the skins that was as solid as a rock. They pounded out a few more songs, then after a scorching version of Cold Chisel’s ‘Rising Sun’, Franulka hung onto the microphone while she waited for the yelling, cheering mob to settle down,
‘Thank you, music lovers,’ she crooned over the mike. ‘And now we’d like to do something a little different. Will you please welcome up on stage the Nimbin Didgeridoo Quartet.’
Norton had to blink as the four hippie men got up on stage, carrying their didgeridoos. Hello, he mused, what sort of a scam is this? But like the crowd, Norton was in for the shock of his life. The hippies set up a microphone at about waist level and aimed their didgeridoos at it. Then on a signal from Franulka, they and the band began an awesome version of Gondwanaland’s ‘Log Dance’. Everybody stopped what they were doing and gaped. The girls crashed and flayed at their instruments like they were performing a Chopin concerto and the hippies had their didgeridoos barking like a pack of African wild dogs. It was a spellbinding performance and a perfect touch in amongst all the pounding rock ’n’ roll. When they finished the whole street stopped and cheered. Norton whistled and clapped till his hands were sore. Jesus what bloody next? he thought. Taken away by the music he never noticed the time till he looked at his watch. It was almost eleven-thirty. Shit! There ain’t gonna be a next. Unexpectedly he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and there was Syd, wearing a neck brace, expressionless.
‘Hello, Les,’ he said.
‘G’day Syd,’ replied Norton evenly.
‘How’re you feeling?’
‘Not bad Syd. What about yourself?’
A thin but ironic smile slowly crept across the big roadie’s face. ‘I suppose I could be a lot worse.’
Norton returned Syd’s smile; though it was just as thin. ‘I suppose we both could be a lot worse.’
‘I reckon you could be right.’ Syd looked evenly at Les for a moment, then offered his massive paw. ‘It was my fault the other night. I’m sorry. No hard feelings?’ Les accepted Syd’s hand. ‘No, no hard feelings. I was a bit pissed and I just didn’t realise what was going on, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, fair enough. Anyway, don’t stand there on your own. Come over and have a drink with us.’
Without thinking, Les replied, ‘Yeah, righto, Syd. Thanks.’
They went across to the side of the stage closest to the entrance to Blue Seas Apartments. Sandra was there drinking a can of UDL and the hippies were getting into a couple of cellar packs of Coolabah.
‘Hello, Len,’ said Sandra. ‘Great party.’
‘Yeah. It’s a ripper,’ replied Norton apprehensively. He glanced at his watch. Eleven twenty-eight.
Then Franulka and the girls on stage noticed Les. Franulka had hold of the microphone as the hippie men got off stage to more thunderous applause.
‘Well, we’re glad you like our — and the Nimbin Didgeridoo Quartet’s — version of ‘Log Dance’. But right now we’d like to welcome someone else up on stage: the man who organised this party. Our man of the year and if it wasn’t for him none of us would be here.’
Norton saw Franulka and the other girls smiling down at him. Oh oh, he thought. That’s all I need. Now half the fuckin’ world’s going to know. There goes my smother. Les was about to give the girls a sickly, sheepish grin and try to get out of going up on stage when suddenly he noticed something that filled him with dread. He grabbed Sandra by the arm.
‘Hey, Sandra,’ said Norton urgently. ‘Where’s Burt and Rosie?’
‘Oh, they went inside a while ago.’
‘Inside!!?’
‘Yes. Burt couldn’t handle the crowd. And all the noise was making Rosie a bit scared, so they decided to go inside.’
Norton felt his blood turn to ice. Here was the glitch he had been dreading. The one thing he never thought of and the angle he never covered. An old blind man confused and frightened in the crowd of people. The dog would be scared and confused too. Either that or Burt was half full of ink and wanted to go in and do a bit of porking. He snatched a look at his watch. Right on eleven-thirty.
‘So, ladies and gentlemen,’ continued Franulka. ‘Would you please put your hands together and welcome up on stage, an entrepreneurial rock ’n’ roll genius. He not only cleans our flats, but he’s going to be our new agent. Ladies and gentlemen... Les —’
Franulka was just about to say Norton when there was a small sharp explosion in the laundry, and another in the foyer. A great shower of white sparks sprayed out of the laundry window. The microphone suddenly went dead, the lights went out and a hush fell over the crowd.
That’s the bloody start of it thought Les, as a cold sweat formed on his brow; in three minutes all that would be left of Burt and Rosie would be a pile of black pork crackling in what was left of Burt’s bedroom. The band and the crowd stared at the shower of sparks trying to figure out what was going on.
‘Fuck!’ said Syd. ‘Looks like we’ve overloaded the system.’
Norton stood and sweated. Could he let Burt and Rosie die? Well, in a way yes. The dirty old bastard. But imagine the horror he’d be going through: blind and terrified, trying to find his way out through the smoke and flames, as he slowly burnt to death. And the old dog Rosie. Screaming in agony as she too slowly roasted in the inferno. Burt maybe. But how could anyone let a guide dog burn to death?
‘Christ all-fuckin-mighty,’ wailed Norton. He shoved his way through the crowd, jumped the fence and dashed into the foyer.
All the lights were blown in the flats but the first thing Les noticed was the great shower of white sparks cascading from the fuse box casting some light across the stairs. In the eerie white light Les raced across to Burt’s door. He was about to start kicking it down when there was a huge explosion in the laundry; the laundry door was blown off its hinges right across the foyer, followed by one of the coppers. If Norton had have left his rescue attempt another couple of seconds, there was a good chance it would have cut him in half. He cleared his ears and shook his head as another explosion in the laundry shook the whole building and he was knocked off his feet.
Outside there was mild panic as the party of the decade came to an abrupt halt and everybody started running for their lives. Within seconds of the explosion, the laundry was a mass of flames and a huge, orange fireball was
spreading up the flats, billowing, rolling and turning in on itself as it crept up the building. Syd and the girls grabbed their instruments and whatever else they could and got off the stage. The hippies seemed to be standing there transfixed, till Sandra grabbed them and started dragging them away.
‘Don’t stand there,’ she screamed. ‘That’s the bloody gas mains exploding. The whole bloody place’ll go up any second.’
Norton picked himself up as the building crackled and burnt around him. It was the weirdest sound, almost like being in the middle of some violent, electrical thunderstorm. Already the heat and smoke was intense and there was this odd smell in the air, something like ether. Up the staircase and all along the ceiling dozens of little fiery explosions were going off like tiny napalm bombs. Les didn’t know what Grigor and his brother had done but he remembered them saying there would be an explosion followed by a fireball and about three minutes later the building would implode. So he had to get his finger out or he’d be imploded with it.
It took him three attempts to kick the door in — the first one loosened it, the second one splintered it around the lock and the third smashed it in. Les found his way to Burt’s bedroom in the light from the flames. Instead of finding a terrified blind man and his howling dog, Norton could only see two inert figures. Burt was blind all right — he was sprawled out across the bed, blind drunk, and so was Rosie. Christ, he cursed. I could have left them in here and they wouldn’t have known a thing. Shit! Burt was in his trousers and singlet snoring his head off; Rosie’s paws were tied to the front of the bed with leather thongs and she was out like a light, snoring her head off and slobbering into the pillows. Even through the smoke, the smell of cheap brandy was almost overpowering. Filthy, drunken old pig, fumed Norton. Typical, he’s fallen asleep on the nest. As the inferno raged through the flats and the heat intensified, Les found he couldn’t get Rosie untied or even wake her up; she’d just roll her fat stomach to one side and her tongue would loll out. In desperation, Les ran into the kitchen and ripped all the drawers out till he found a sharp knife. The crackling noise now sounded like a tropical monsoon lashing a tin roof. Frantically Les hacked at the leather thongs as the smoke choked him and stung his eyes. Finally he cut through, then hoisted old Burt up on his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and began dragging Rosie along the floor by her collar.
Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas Page 23
