The Double L Ranch was a quick downhill walk past the clothes shops next to the laneway, set back a few metres from the road between two vacant allotments across from a community centre surrounded by trees. Maybe it was the effect Lonnie wanted. Les wasn’t quite sure. But the bar was no more than a big, rough slab hut with a galvanised-iron roof. There was a solid double door on the right, and on the left was a small parking area and delivery bay, where a silver Holden Colorado sat alongside an old black VW. Two wooden poles joined at the top by a length of weathered timber with DOUBLE L RANCH burnt into it, stood above a short concrete path leading to the front door. A couple of windows with security grilles looked out over the parking area. There was no landscaping or any sign of colour. Les gave the drab venue a quick perusal then followed the path to the entrance, pushed open the door on the left and stepped inside.
Les found himself in a narrow foyer with a small counter facing the double doors and an archway on the left. Les walked through the archway to find the inside of the club matched the outside. There was no ceiling, just beams and trusses holding up the lighting and the galvanised-iron roof with room underneath for a hundred people maximum. On the right was a bar with a mirror running along the wall behind and the door to an office at the foyer end. The bar finished where the room angled round to a kitchen that stood alongside a fire escape door and also faced the toilets in the opposite corner. Plain blue carpet covered the floor, beneath a smattering of wooden tables and stools, and several bench tables and seats sat beneath the windows facing the street. Poked in a corner on the left was a disc jockey’s booth and Les counted six Bose speakers amongst the lights hanging from the beams. He couldn’t see a mirror ball and there didn’t appear to be a dancefloor. Les turned to his right.
Standing in front of the bar, a man wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt with the Double L logo on the pocket was talking quietly to three women. The man was about average height and build, with untidy black hair pushed across a creased face, and he had a wall eye. Les stared at the man and a striking comparison kicked straight in. Detective Columbo. The only things missing were the half-smoked cigar and the crumpled grey coat. Standing on the man’s right was a plump blonde also wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt, and on his left was a spiky-haired brunette dressed the same. Behind the bar stood a well-stacked blonde in a black dress holding an A4 lecture pad. The group suddenly noticed Les and stopped whatever it was they were doing. Les walked straight over to the man with the wall eye.
‘Are you Lonnie Lonreghan?’ asked Les.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ smiled the man, tapping absently at his forehead. ‘You got to be Les.’
‘That’s right,’ replied Les, offering his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Lonnie.’
‘Good to meet you too, Les.’ The man shook Norton’s hand then turned to the three women. ‘Ladies,’ he said. ‘This is Les Norton. Our swingin DJ for the next two nights. Les, this is Kerrie, my bar manager.’ Les shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with the blonde behind the bar. ‘And this is Robyn and Tania, my ace bar staff.’ Les shook hands with Robyn, the plump blonde, and Tania, the brunette. ‘I also got a bar useful called Jock. And two guys on the door, Mason and Buddy. You’ll meet them tonight. They’re good lads.’
‘Fair enough,’ nodded Les.
Lonnie pointed to the lecture pad the bar manager was holding. ‘Kerrie, will you check those figures again, while I show Les around.’
‘Sure, Lonnie,’ she replied.
‘You want a drink, Les?’ asked Lonnie.
‘I wouldn’t mind a sparkling mineral water,’ replied Les.
‘Kerrie.’
Kerrie nodded then reached down and got Les a small bottle of mineral water from a cabinet. Les thanked her, then, sipping from the bottle, followed Lonnie around while he pointed various things out. There wasn’t much to see and Les found what there wasn’t to be quite an eye-opener.
Behind the rough wooden bar, spirits were very basic, there were no beers on tap and the glass cabinets contained one brand of alco-pops, three brands of Australian beer and one German. Soft drinks consisted of Coca-Cola, lemonade and mineral water. The office was as big as Norton’s laundry at home and contained a safe pushed against the wall beneath a small table, a white board, a battery powered clock, a computer, and an office chair.
Stepping out from behind the bar, Les found the Double L kitchen wasn’t much bigger than the office, and sold pies and hamburgers which could be washed down with instant coffee or tea bags. Above the pie warmer a small sign read CHIPS AND GRAVY. TOAST AND GRAVY. GRAVY. A small till sat on the counter and a sliding door on the back wall led to the fridge and storeroom.
The urinal in the Gents was two halves of a forty-four gallon drum on a concrete stand with a garden hose below and a cistern above. There was one metal toilet bowl and a metal sink with a hand dryer and no mirror. The lighting was dim, the concrete floor was badly laid and poorly drained and the only difference between the Double L’s Gents and something from a third world country was that the Double L’s hadn’t seen any action yet.
Lonnie gave Les a quick tour of the stools and tables then led him over to the DJ booth, which stood a metre above the floor and was built from more old wood. Three steps led up to a half-door where you gained entrance and Les was about to follow Lonnie up the steps when he noticed a small sign across the front of the DJ booth in white letters with red edging. THIS IS NOT A RAVE. THERE IS NO DANCEFLOOR. DANCING STRICTLY PROHIBITED. OFFENDERS WILL BE EJECTED. BY ORDER. THE MANAGEMENT. Les read the sign again before stepping into the DJ booth behind Lonnie.
It was cramped and spartan. But the components were brand new and top of the range. Two CD players sat between a powerful amplifier and a computer, while stacked neatly on shelves below were hundreds of CDs in easily accessible racks. There was a small lamp, no microphone, no headphones and set into the console on the right-hand side of the computer was a solid yellow switch.
‘Basically, Les,’ said Lonnie, waving his hand over everything, ‘all I want you to do is record every track you play.’
‘Record all the tracks,’ said Les.
‘Yeah. They’ll go onto the computer. Later I’ll transfer them to an MP 3. Then burn them onto a CD.’ Lonnie picked out a CD. The Rolling Stones’ A Bigger Bang. ‘You see on the back, I’ve put a dot next to different tracks with a white marking pen?’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les.
‘Well, they’re the tracks I want you to record.’
‘Any particular order?’
‘Nope. Just play them at random. And you don’t have to write them down. The computer will read and record everything.’
‘Cool,’ said Les.
Lonnie slipped the CD into the player and seconds later ‘Rough Justice’ came thumping out of the Bose speakers, filling every corner of the room, clear as a bell.
‘Holy smoke!’ acknowledged Les. ‘That’s a bloody good sound system.’
‘Yeah. It’s not bad,’ agreed Lonnie. ‘The place isn’t all that big. So just keep the amp at half volume.’
‘Righto.’
Lonnie ran Les over the controls a couple of times and Les soon figured out you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to do what Lonnie asked. It was no harder than making tapes on his stereo at home. Lonnie pressed the stop button, took the CD out and placed it back with the others.
‘Any questions?’ asked Lonnie.
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘What’s the yellow switch for?’
Lonnie flicked the yellow switch up and a red sign flashed on and off between the windows facing the car park: DANCING PROHIBITED. STOP.
‘If any cunt starts dancing,’ said Lonnie, ‘push the yellow switch. And if they don’t stop, I’ll get the boys to throw them out. And if anyone says anything to you, tell them there’s no dancefloor. And if they don’t like it, they can fuck off. But I’ll be keeping an eye on things from behind the bar.’
‘Are they allowed to tap their feet or clap their hands?’ L
es asked.
‘A little bit,’ nodded Lonnie
Les looked at Lonnie in disbelief. ‘Lonnie,’ he said. ‘For the life of me I can’t figure this out. You’re running a nightclub with a top sound system and by eleven o’clock it’s going to be full of drunks and mullheads. Yet you won’t let anyone boogie. What…?’
‘I know. It’s a funny one,’ said Lonnie. ‘But I’ll explain everything to you when Eddie gets here on Saturday night.’ Les shook his head. ‘All right.’
Lonnie put an arm around Norton’s shoulder and in a fatherly fashion led him out of the DJ cabinet to one of the tables out the front. ‘Well. What do you reckon about the place, Les?’ he asked, waving an arm around the bar.
‘What do I reckon?’ said Les, placing his empty bottle on the table.
‘Yeah. What do you think of the joint?’
Seeing he was only going to be there two nights Les thought he might as well tell Lonnie the truth. ‘It’s a fuckin dump,’ replied Les. ‘You got fuck all to drink. Fuck all to eat. You’ve built the joint out of old railway sleepers and whatever else you could scrounge up. There’s no dancing. No vibe. And I hope to Christ my bladder can hold out for four hours, because once that brasco gets a roll on, you’ll catch anything in there from bubonic plague to the jack.’ Les looked directly at Lonnie. ‘The joint’s a dump.’
Les expected Lonnie to tell him to get well and truly fucked and don’t bother turning up later. Instead his face broke into a happy grin.
‘I know,’ agreed Lonnie. ‘Isn’t it a shit fight? If I didn’t own the joint, I wouldn’t be seen dead in here.’
‘Well, what the fuck’s going on?’
‘Like I said, Les,’ smiled Lonnie, ‘I’ll explain everything to you when Eddie gets here on Saturday night.’
‘Including why I’m staying in a backpacker’s hotel. Because fair dinkum, Lonnie, I don’t need the money. I’m only here returning Eddie a favour.’
‘I know that, Les. And I truly appreciate it.’
‘So where do you live?’ Les asked.
Lonnie nodded towards the road. ‘On an old farm. About thirty-five clicks out of town.’
‘Okay.’ Les paused for a second. ‘All right, Lonnie,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tonight. Eight o’clock.’
Lonnie gave Les a warm handshake. ‘I’ll see you then, mate. And thanks again.’
‘No worries.’ Les waved the girls goodbye and left the room.
Outside, Les stood quietly in the sun for a moment, then looked back at the venue. That place is a madhouse, he told himself. And the owner needs his head read. The punters’ll tar and feather me tonight if I have to hit that yellow No Dancing switch. Boy! Can I get myself into some shit.
Les turned to his right and noticed the road levelled off nicely towards the surrounding hills and valleys. That’s what I’ll do, he thought. Have a run. And try and put my mind at rest for an hour. By the time I do that, then have a shower, tart myself up and have a feed, it’ll be time to bundy on at the fabulous Double L Dumpmaster for four hours of dance music no one’s allowed to dance to. I can’t wait. Les walked back to his room, changed into his training gear, did a few stretches on the balcony then wrapped a sweatband round his head and set off.
The heat had gone out of the day and the run was quite enjoyable. Past a bowling club at the bottom of the hill, traffic was almost non-existent so Les was able to run in the middle of the road and avoid any loose rocks along the side where he could have rolled an ankle. Jogging steadily along Les noticed the surrounding countryside consisted of lush meadows and farms on one side and steep mountains hidden beneath dense forest on the right. He didn’t dwell on the Double L Ranch. But he was looking forward to catching up with Eddie tomorrow night. Before Les knew it, he’d burned up half-an-hour going one way and it was time to turn around.
Back at the hotel, Les had a shower and a shave, then flopped on his bunk and read for a while before getting changed, to have something to eat prior to hitting the Double L Ranch. The blue check shirt he wore to the wedding wasn’t too crushed. Les put that on over his jeans and a plain blue T-shirt. There was no mirror in the room, but Les felt he looked good enough to spend four hours playing disco duck in a glorified shearing shed. He gave his hair a quick flick and left the hotel.
At the pizza shop, Les ordered a chicken schnitzel with chips and salad then sat down in the restaurant at the same table as the night before. Coincidentally, the same European family as the night before were seated at the same table next to him, hogging into the same pizzas and the same size bottles of Coke. There were half-a-dozen or so other diners in the restaurant, but Les didn’t see any bags of pot or notice anyone going out for a toke. His chicken schnitzel arrived and it was very good, not over crumbed, the chips were crisp and the salad was fresh. Les washed it all down with a flat white, lingered to the last, then paid his bill. Before he left the pizza shop, he bought two bottles of mineral water and took them back to his room. Satisfied everything was in order, Les exited the hotel once more and strolled down to the Double L Ranch.
Even with the outside lights on the venue still looked pretty dismal sitting between the two vacant blocks. Standing in front of the double doors were two solid young blokes with square jaws and thick necks both wearing dark blue polo shirts with the Double L logo on the front pocket. One had chunked-up black hair, the other had brown hair combed straight back off his forehead. They stopped talking and gave Les a bit of a once-up-and-down as they watched him coming up the path.
‘G’day,’ said Les, stopping in front of the two men. ‘You must be Mason and Buddy.’
‘That’s right,’ replied the bloke with black hair.
‘I’m Les. Your swingin groovin DJ for the next two nights.’
Both men’s eyes lit up. ‘Hey. How are you, Les?’ smiled the bloke with black hair. ‘Lonnie told us to expect you. I’m Buddy.’
‘G’day, Buddy.’ Les shook Buddy’s hand.
‘And I’m Mason,’ said the man with brown hair.
‘How are you, Mason?’ Les also shook Mason’s hand.
‘Jesus. I got to say,’ said Buddy, ‘you don’t look much like a DJ, Les.’
‘No,’ agreed Mason. ‘We were expecting some skinny eccyhead dressed in black with a cap on back the front.’
‘That’s Skunk Daddy,’ said Les. ‘He starts next week.’
Les had a quick mag to the two doormen. They both came from Lismore and played football. Buddy was a mechanic. Mason built security grilles. Les said he did security work in Sydney and was a friend of a friend of Lonnie’s.
‘Has Lonnie told you about this no dancing rattle?’ asked Les.
Buddy tapped the side of his forehead. ‘Yeah. It’s got me fucked.’
‘Fuckin weird,’ said Mason.
‘That’s what I reckon,’ agreed Les. ‘Anyway, we’ll see what happens.’ He glanced at his watch and moved towards the door. ‘Okay. I’d better get inside and do my thing. Or Lonnie’ll dock my wages. I’ll see you before the night’s out, fellahs.’
‘Righto, Les,’ smiled Buddy.
‘Have a good one,’ said Mason, pushing open the door.
Les stepped into the foyer. It was empty so he walked straight through the archway into the club.
The soft lighting wasn’t meant to be soft or set any mood. It was just poorly set up. There were about twenty people seated or standing around and another four at the bar getting served. The three girls were standing behind it pouring or handing out drinks. Les tipped Lonnie would be in his office. He said hello to the girls then lifted up the gate on the bar and stepped into the office. Lonnie was seated in his swivel chair wearing the same polo shirt and jeans.
‘Hey, Les. How are you, mate?’ smiled Lonnie. ‘Right on time too,’ he added, glancing up at the clock.
‘Well, Lonnie. Eddie warned me you were a tough boss. So I thought I’d better do the right thing.’
‘Yeah, right,’ chuckled Lonnie.
L
es folded his arms across his chest. ‘Eddie tells me you and him are mates from Vietnam,’ said Les.
‘Yeah. I was an Air Force Perimeter Guard. We used to get on the piss together in Saigon.’
‘So where are you from, Lonnie, if you don’t mind me asking?’ said Les.
‘Sydney. I grew up in Five Dock.’
‘Do you know George Brennan, from the club?’
‘George,’ smiled Lonnie. ‘Reckon. We used to play touch football with the Five Dock Floggers. He wasn’t the fastest on the paddock. But get him on a dancefloor, he makes MC Hammer look like he’s stuck in quicksand.’
‘So I believe,’ smiled Les. He looked up at the clock. ‘Well, I’d better go and do my thing.’
‘Okay. Everything’s set up over there. I’ll hit the dimmer. All you got to do is play the tracks I’ve noted. And remember…’
‘No dancing,’ replied Les.
‘Right on, dude. Oh. And if you want a drink, just help yourself.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And before you start, say hello to Amy in the snack bar. Jock’s out there somewhere. Say hello to him too.’
‘I’ll do that.’
Les left the office and told Kerrie he was going to get a bottle of mineral water. No problem, Les. Go for your life. With his bottle of water Les stepped from behind the bar and walked round to the snack bar. Standing behind the counter wearing jeans and a white T-shirt under a white apron was a dumpy auburn-haired girl with her long hair parted in the middle and held back by a red polkadot bandana. She had nice white teeth and a homely face and could be classed as attractive, except she was violently cross-eyed. She looked up at Les and no matter how hard he tried, Les couldn’t tell who or what she was looking at.
‘Hello,’ smiled Les. ‘Are you Amy?’
‘That’s right,’ smiled Amy.
‘I’m Les. The DJ. Lonnie said to say hello.’
‘Oh. How are you, Les?’ Amy’s eyes might not have been the best, but she had a lovely smile.
‘I’m good,’ Les smiled back. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good too.’
An overweight young bloke wearing jeans and the same blue polo shirt appeared on Norton’s left holding a plastic bucket. He had curly black hair and a full face marked with acne.
High Noon in Nimbin Page 11
