High Noon in Nimbin

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Hey, Amy,’ the bloke said quietly. ‘Can I have a pie?

  ‘Sure, Jock,’ replied Amy. ‘Sauce?’

  ‘Yeah. Give me the bottle.’

  ‘G’day, Jock,’ smiled Les, offering his hand. ‘I’m Les. The DJ.’

  ‘Ohh. How are you, Les,’ replied Jock, shaking Norton’s hand.

  ‘Pretty good, mate.’ Les gestured to Amy who was taking a pie out of the oven. ‘I’ll see you later, Amy,’ he called out. ‘I got to start work.’

  ‘Okay, Les,’ she replied, with a cross-eyed smile. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘See you, Jock.’

  ‘Yeah. See you, Les.’

  Les walked over to the DJ booth and let himself in as Lonnie dimmed the lights from the office. While he was getting his bearings he checked out the punters, who were in turn checking out the DJ. They were all clean and reasonably well dressed and well over eighteen. A few more women than men, wearing denim or frilly dresses with coloured ribbons and such in their hair, and although Les couldn’t see any beauty queens, none of them had been hit with an ugly stick either. The men looked much the same, mostly wearing jeans and T-shirts with the odd badly ironed shirt tucked in here and there. It was too early for anyone to be drunk. But if the eyes on two couples seated near the DJ booth were any indication, a fair bit of pot had been smoked before some of the punters hit Nimbin’s newest nightspot. After a mouthful of mineral water, Les placed the bottle next to the amplifier and adjusted the lamp, then idly flicked through the CDs before picking one out at random: Lucy De Soto and the Handsome Devils’ Whisky Dance. I wonder who the fuck this is, he thought, looking at the cover. Never bloody heard of them. Lonnie’s marked a few tracks. I’ll play this one, ‘Bullfrog’. In memory of Fabio. Les placed the CD in the player, tuned the track and pressed Play. Oh well, he shrugged. Here we go. Doof-doof-fuckin-doof. A couple of seconds later, Les nearly fell out of the DJ booth.

  It was one of the filthiest rock ’n roll tracks Les had come across in yonks. Twanging steel guitars, hot harmonicas, a thumping bass and other sweet sounds came howling out of the Bose speakers, pushed on by a back beat solid enough to knock down a door. Besides that, the woman singing had a crackling nasally voice that fired the track along like there was no tomorrow. The punters were taken by surprise also. After expecting to be saturated with the same old same old house music, it was a deep breath of fresh rock ’n roll air. As soon as they got over their initial shock, they started banging their heads around, clapping their hands and shaking their shoulders to what was belting out of the bar’s A1 sound system.

  Les picked out another CD, checked the track and placed it in the player. Then as soon as ‘Bullfrog’ finished, the Joe Galea Band started hoofing into ‘Do You Have A Garter Belt’. It too was a hot rock ’n roll number. Les followed up with Rock This House—B.B. King and Elton John. Sadie Green—‘Dig T. Tyler’. ‘Tuxedo Junction’—Jools Holland and a heap of other kick arse rock ’n roll tracks Norton had never heard before.

  More punters drifted in till the place was over half full. Jock kept Les supplied with cold mineral water, Buddy and Mason came in to make sure everything was okay, while the time flew. And I thought I was going to be stuck playing house music, laughed Les, as ‘Madison Blues’—George Thorogood finished and he played Shooter Jennings’ hot version of the old Dire Straits number ‘Walk of Life’. This is rock ’n roll heaven.

  Then the first hiccup occurred. Flicking through the CDs, Les found Last Man Standing—Jerry Lee Lewis. And Lonnie had marked ‘Hadacol Boogie’. The first four bars hadn’t pumped out of the speakers when two beefy blondes wearing black denim and their hair braided got up and started dancing. Well. Here goes nothing, thought Les and flicked the yellow switch. The NO DANCING sign started flashing on and off and from out of nowhere, Lonnie came running over.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he yelled at the two beefy blondes.

  ‘We’re dancing. What does it fuckin look like?’ the beefiest of the two blondes yelled back.

  ‘Well, stop it,’ said Lonnie. ‘Or I’ll have you thrown out.’

  ‘What?’ said her girlfriend.

  Lonnie pointed to the flashing red sign. ‘There’s no dancefloor. And them’s the rules. And if you don’t like it you can leave.’

  ‘You’re off your fuckin head, sport,’ said the first blonde.

  ‘Maybe,’ replied Lonnie. ‘But I own the place. So sit down and behave yourself. Or you’re out the door.’

  ‘I don’t fuckin believe it,’ said her girlfriend.

  The girls sat down, Lonnie returned to the bar and Les switched the sign off. Then the girls started glaring at Les. He got another track ready when the beefiest blonde rose to her feet, pulled her jeans up round her fat arse then came marching through the punters over to the DJ booth and climbed the stairs.

  ‘Hey, you,’ she called out.

  ‘Yes. Can I help you, miss?’ smiled Les.

  ‘Yeah,’ scowled the blonde. ‘What’s all this no dancing shit?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Les. ‘I’m just working here trying to pay off a mortgage.’

  ‘Well, it’s pretty fucked if you ask me.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Les. ‘But there’s a sign on the front of the booth letting you know. You got a beef. Go see the boss.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ cursed the blonde.

  Les gave her an impassive once-up-and-down. ‘You wouldn’t say that if my wife was here.’

  ‘Cunt.’

  ‘I don’t know if we’ve got that,’ smiled Les. ‘Who sings it?’

  The blonde stormed off and rejoined her girlfriend glaring at Les. Les had a drink of mineral water and played ‘Greasy Kid Stuff’—Kid Ramos.

  After that, the punters got more drink and hot ones into them and things got worse. People kept getting up and dancing, Les kept pushing the yellow button and Lonnie kept running over and stopping them, then they’d come up and abuse Les. One tall wiry bloke with a black mullet and tattoos wearing jeans and an old green flannelette shirt got told three times to stop dancing. He had a couple of goes at Les and towards the end of the night, Lonnie came over with Buddy and Mason and threw the bloke and his three mates out. Watching from the DJ booth, Les was impressed with the way the two doormen managed to do it without any spilled drinks, spilled blood or unnecessary drama. Les finished another bottle of mineral water, looked at his watch and couldn’t believe how fast the night had gone. It was time for the last track. He fished up ‘Juicy Fruit’—Rudy Green and when it was over put the CD back with the others then stood there looking out at the crowd who were giving him mixed looks; some thought he was a hero for playing all that good music; most thought he was an absolute dropkick for stopping them from enjoying themselves. Les was hoping he’d make it out of the club without getting his clothes torn off when the lights came on and Lonnie appeared at the entrance to the DJ’s booth.

  ‘So how did your gala opening night go, Lonnie?’ asked Les.

  ‘About what I expected,’ replied Lonnie. ‘How was it for you?’

  ‘How was it for me?’ echoed Les. ‘Well, I did what you asked. And when I wasn’t getting abused by everyone, it was great. The last time I heard music as good as that was at a blues festival down the south coast.’

  ’Not bad rock ‘n roll eh?’

  ‘Fantastic. But I’m playing all that grouse music,’ complained Les, ‘yet at the same time I’ve got to make a complete twenty-four carat dropkick of myself and push the No Dancing switch when the punters do no more than start having a good time. Fair dinkum, Lonnie. You can’t be playing with a full deck.’

  ‘I know. It’s a funny one,’ smiled Lonnie.

  ‘And you’ll explain it all to me tomorrow night, when Eddie gets here.’

  ‘Exactemondo, hombre.’

  ‘All right,’ shrugged Les. ‘So where did you get all those CDs, anyway? Most of them, I’ve never heard of.’

  ‘Off a sheila in Bondi,’ answered Lon
nie.

  ‘Not Side Valve Susie, by any chance?’

  ‘Yeah. You know her?’

  ‘I sure do. She’s an old friend of mine. Lives just down the road.’

  ‘She’s getting me some more,’ said Lonnie. ‘She’s a genius. You just tell her what you want, and she’ll have it for you in a week. At a good price, too.’

  ‘That’s Susie,’ nodded Les.

  ‘So what are you doing now, Les?’ Lonnie asked. ‘You want to stay back and have a few staffies? You can’t drink mineral water all night. People’ll think you’re a poof.’

  Les thought for a moment. ‘To be honest, Lonnie, I gave the piss a bit of a nudge last night. I might drag my sorry arse back to the hotel and go straight to bed. Give my ears a rest. Maybe tomorrow night when I catch up with Eddie.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Will you say goodnight to the girls and that for me?’

  ‘Yeah. No worries. We’ll be doing the tills and fucking around here for a while yet.’

  ‘All right,’ said Les, moving towards the stairs. ‘Well, I’ll just exit stage right and be on my way.’

  ‘Okay, Les,’ winked Lonnie. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night at eight.’

  ‘Righto, Lonnie. See you then.’

  Buddy and Mason were slowly moving the remaining punters out of the room as Les eased his way through. He gave the boys a wink and said he’d see them tomorrow night. They smiled back and Les left the bar. Outside the people drifting around in the dark didn’t notice him, so Les turned left for the short walk back to his room.

  Well, isn’t life full of surprises, mused Les as he came to the start of the hill leading up towards the hotel. I thought I was going to be punished unmercifully with house music. Instead, that was a blast. Ronnie sure knows a good rock track or two. Bad luck he’s dirty on people dancing, though. The joint would have gone off. Anyway. It’s on again tomorrow night. Right now I just want to put my head down. Les had just reached the hotel when four figures appeared, coming across the road from the war memorial.

  ‘Hey. Fuckin you,’ one of the figures called out in a voice filled with drunken belligerence.

  Les turned around to find the bloke with the mullet who had got thrown out of the club coming towards him with his three mates. They were all dressed much the same in black T-shirts and jeans and looked much the same, except for one who had a ginger buzz cut.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Les. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You got us thrown out of the bar tonight, you cunt,’ said the bloke with the mullet.

  ‘Mate,’ said Les. ‘I didn’t get you thrown out. You got yourselves thrown out. To be honest, I reckon that No Dancing rattle is a pretty stupid idea. But I got to do what the boss tells me.’

  ‘Ohh, bullshit,’ said one of Mullet’s mates, wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt. ‘You’re just a fuckin nark.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ replied Les.

  ‘You fucked up our night,’ said Mullet. ‘We were getting onto some chicks in there, till you put your fuckin head in.’

  ‘Well, come back tomorrow night,’ said Les. ‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty more girls there absolutely fanging to meet four studs like you.’

  ‘You’re a fuckin smartarse, mate,’ said one of Mullet’s pals.

  ‘Whatever you say,’ replied Les. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, gents, I’m going to bed. Goodnight.’

  Les started climbing the stairs when one of the group yelled out, ‘Go on. Get the cunt, Raggsie.’

  Les turned around to find the bloke with the mullet clambering up the stairs behind him while the others waited at the bottom. Norton waited till the bloke was two steps below him, then brought his right leg back and punt-kicked him under the chin. Raggsie let out a howl of pain and tumbled back down the stairs into his mates. He was lying on his back across the footpath when Les came flying off the stairs and landed heels first into the bloke’s stomach, rupturing his sternum. Raggsie’s mouth opened, there was a brief gagging sound, then his eyes rolled back and he lay there motionless. Les jumped off him and planted two left hooks into the closest face he could find, splitting whoever it belonged to’s mouth open and sitting him on his backside. The bloke had barely fallen, when Les drew his right foot back and snap-kicked the next bloke in the groin, doubling him over. His eyes bulged agonisingly at Les, before Norton dropped him with a lightning fast crescent-kick to the jaw. This left Buzz Cut standing on his own and not the slightest bit interested in mixing it with the DJ.

  ‘Come on, shithead,’ gestured Les. ‘What do you want to do?’

  Buzz Cut retreated to the laneway and tried to look tough. He poked out his chin and pointed at Les. ‘You’re dead meat, mate. We know where you live. And we’ll fuckin get you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ replied Les. ‘I’ve heard that before.’ Les quickly advanced along the footpath towards Buzz Cut. But Buzz Cut had already figured discretion was the better part of valour. He turned and fled and was past the Hemp Embassy picking up speed when Les yelled out, ‘Yeah, go on. Fuck off. You little turd.’ Les turned back, stopping for a moment to have a last look at the three blokes lying moaning and bleeding on the footpath, before he started up the stairs.

  ‘Now,’ he said cordially. ‘If you fine fellows will excuse me, I’d like to go to bed. The night has been unusual, to say the least. Good evening, gentlemen.’ Les let himself in the front door then took the stairs to the corridor and went straight to the bathroom.

  Back in his room, Les closed the door behind him, climbed out of his clothes and laid them on the top bunk next to his bags. Oh yes, he smiled, standing in his jox. How sweet it is. No stinking of cigarette smoke. Thank you. Yawning now, Les climbed into his trackies, had a long drink of water then folded up the same black T-shirt, turned off the light and climbed into his bunk. He wrapped the T-shirt across his eyes, yawned, took in a deep breath through his nose and relaxed. He started to think about the night at the club, the fight out the front and Lonnie’s eccentricity. Before long Les figured there was nothing worth thinking about. It was all too weird. Another yawn, a scrunch of his head into the pillows and soon Norton was snoring soundly.

  After a good night’s sleep, Les woke up reasonably early the next morning feeling fresh as a daisy. He gazed around the room for a moment, then climbed out of his bunk, got his towel and shaving kit and, not having any sign of a hangover to contend with, cheerfully strode off down the corridor to the bathroom. When he’d finished, Les returned to his room, opened the back door and, still in his trackies, stepped out onto the verandah to see what the day was doing.

  It was much the same as Friday, mild and sunny, with patches of fat clouds drifting along in the breeze and no sign of rain. In the street below, Nimbin was still barely coming to life. Apart from the odd vehicle driving past, the only signs of movement were a few people coming and going at the newsagency across the road. Les had a stretch then strolled down to the far end of the verandah to view the mist rising from the hills and valleys while he took a few deep breaths. Hello, smiled Les, when he stopped at the end railing, looks like the old French bloke’s back in the hood. What’s the old troublemaker and his wife up to this time?

  Parked on its own next to the war memorial was the white Winnebago with the tricolour flag in the rear window. Les watched as the driver’s door opened and the old bloke got out, wearing a light green tracksuit, a khaki giggle hat and a big pair of sunglasses. Gripped firmly in his right hand was an aluminium walking stick. The old bloke closed the door then hobbled slowly across the road, his attention fixed on something near the Hemp Embassy. Les moved across to the long railing, poked his head over the side and had a look.

  Strolling casually across the laneway on his own was the dealer the others called Ray; the one who had abused the old bloke the previous afternoon. Well, what do you know, mused Les, picking up on the dark blue tracksuit with the red piping. It’s our friendly neighbourhood dope dealer. Probably getting ready to meet the other sales reps for a
power breakfast while they work out their sales plan for the day. Ray continued walking beneath the verandah, towards the driveway that separated the hotel from the shops next door. Les watched him for a moment then moved back to the end railing as the old bloke stepped up onto the footpath. From his vantage point by the railing, Les had the same excellent view and again any sounds from the street drifted up loud and clear.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ the old bloke said to Ray as the man in the blue tracksuit drew near. ‘Have you a moment?’

  Ray stopped in front of the old bloke leaning on his walking stick and didn’t recognise him beneath the hat and sunglasses. ‘Yeah. What do you want?’ Ray answered curtly.

  ‘My son asked for me to get him weed,’ smiled the old bloke. ‘You can help, please. Yes?’

  ‘Sure,’ replied Ray cordially, the sniff of an easy sale in the air. ‘No problems, mate.’

  The old bloke indicated the narrow driveway leading to the back of the hotel. ‘Do you mind if we go down lane? I am old and nervous. And do not like doing such a thing in open.’

  ‘Good idea,’ patronised Ray. ‘You can never be too careful.’

  ‘After you, sir.’

  ‘All right,’ replied Ray.

  They had walked a few short metres down the lane when unexpectedly the old bloke swung his walking stick back like a baseball bat and slammed it against the side of Ray’s left knee, buckling the dealer’s leg. From his position by the railing, Les had a perfect view and found himself totally gobsmacked.

  ‘Ohh, Jesus fuckin Christ,’ screamed Ray. He clutched at his knee in agony, before falling awkwardly onto his right leg. ‘Ohh, you fuckin old cunt,’ he roared up at the old bloke.

  Saying nothing, the old bloke swung the walking stick again and slammed it against the side of Ray’s face, slicing his cheekbone open across to his ear. Ray just had time for another scream of pain before the old bloke swung the walking stick again and hit him in the mouth, ripping open his lips and knocking out several teeth. The dealer made a frantic grab for his face when the old bloke raised his walking stick like an axe and brought it down across Ray’s bony head, splitting his scalp open.