Still Riding on the Storm

by Robert G. Barrett

  Norton covered his face with his hands and let out a cry of horror. ‘Oh my God,’ he cried. ‘What have I done?’

  He ran across the room and cradled Walker’s battered head in his arms as blood bubbled out of his nose and over his chin. ‘Oh shit, I’m sorry, Ron. Are you all right, mate?’

  The stunt co-ordinator looked up at Norton, eyes wide open but seeing nothing at all.

  Oddly enough, what sounded like a muted cheer ran through the film crew and they certainly didn’t break any records to get to the stricken Walker.

  ‘Jesus, I’m sorry, mate,’ said Les to the director as they carried the stunt co-ordinator off the set. ‘I just slipped.’

  ‘That’s all right, Les,’ said the director. ‘Accidents can happen — especially in these fight scenes.’

  ‘I … I just feel terrible about it. That’s all.’ Norton twisted his face up and rolled his eyes with remorse.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said the director. ‘Do you think you can still carry on though?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. No worries.’

  ‘Bradley. What about you?’

  ‘No sweat,’ shrugged the star.

  ‘Okay,’ said the director, with a clap of his hands. ‘We’ll set it up again.’

  Norton had managed to get rid of the flip of a stunt coordinator. Now all he had to do was work on Bradley’s hungover lethargy.

  While they were getting the camera in position he eyed the Aussie star up and down then started up a bit of a conversation.

  ‘Hey, Stephen,’ he said coyly. ‘You’re married to that Vanessa Valdivia, aren’t you. The star of Dallas.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Why?’

  ‘Ahh, it’s just that they reckon she’s got a top body. I saw a photo of her topless in a magazine the other day and I reckon her tits look like two light switches.’

  Bradley frowned. ‘Hey, hold on a minute.’

  ‘I also saw a photo of her in Cleo,’ continued Norton. ‘Christ, where does she get her clothes — The Smith Family? She looks like an unmade bed. You’d see better sorts driving tractors in Russia.’

  Bradley’s face started to colour a bit and he was not in the slightest bit amused. ‘You can just take that back, my friend,’ he said menacingly.

  ‘And is that right what that Hollywood gossip columnist said? The Dallas Cowboys all went through her one night and she gave half the team the jack.’

  ‘What! Why you …’

  Just as the director called action Bradley flew at Norton like a madman — eyes rolling, flecks of foam flying from his lips. He started throwing lefts and rights like they were going out of style. Almost 50 punches landed on Les but he took nearly all of them on his arms and shoulders: the few that got through wouldn’t have bruised a peach anyway.

  After about three minutes Bradley had punched himself out and Norton slumped to the ground moaning and groaning in feigned agony. Bradley gave him a kick in the ribs, which Les caught on his elbow, and stormed off the set.

  ‘Fantastic!’ yelled the director.

  ‘Great stuff!’ said the cameraman. ‘We’ll be able to use plenty of that.’

  ‘That work all right, did it?’ grinned Norton, raising his head to one side.

  After he’d got changed and cleaned up, a girl from the production office, Belinda Bridger, came over and gave Norton a release to sign. She wasn’t half a bad sort either.

  ‘That wasn’t a bad fight scene,’ she laughed. ‘Very authentic.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked it.’

  ‘That was no accident with Ronald Wanker either.’

  Les smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Don’t worry. You did everyone a favour. He was about as much use as a boil on your arse.’

  Norton laughed out loud and started up a bit of a conversation with Belinda. ‘Hey, where do you live, Belinda?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Trendy Paddington.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I just live down in deepest, darkest Bondi. How would you like to come out tonight and help me spend some of my movie-star money?’

  Belinda smiled and gave Norton a very heavy once up and down. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’d love to.’

  She produced a small note-book and gave Les her address and phone number.

  Norton was in the bathroom shaving, singing and sucking on a can of Fourex when Warren got home from work.

  ‘Hey I heard about the fight scene,’ he said. ‘Bad luck about Walker but they reckon the rushes look terrific.’

  ‘Yeah? That’s good, isn’t it?’ replied Les.

  ‘See, I told you it’d be worth your while, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yeah, you sure did. Thanks, Woz.’

  Warren looked at Les curiously for a second then smiled. ‘Hey, how come you’re shaving and getting all dolled up?’

  ‘I got a date, haven’t I?’

  ‘Fair dinkum. What, did you get on to one of Bradley’s groupies did you?’

  ‘No. I finished up with one of the sheilas works in the production office.’

  ‘The production office.’ Warren frowned slightly. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Belinda. Belinda Bridger.’

  ‘What?’ Warren’s jaw dropped almost to the floor. ‘Hey, hold on. I’ve been getting on to her. I get you a job and you end up getting on to my girl.’

  ‘Sorry, mate, but you know how it is when you’re a movie star.’

  Warren shook his head, quite downcast. ‘Ah shit, Les. That’s not fair.’

  ‘Yeah, but you know the old saying mate.’

  ‘What?’

  Les put his hand on Warren’s shoulder and grinned. ‘That’s showbiz.’

  THE PARTY OF THE FIRST PART

  ‘Now you’ve got the address, haven’t you, Les?’

  ‘Yep. It’s written down over there in the top pocket of my tuxedo.’

  ‘What time do you reckon you’ll be there?’ Norton shrugged his shoulders slightly.

  ‘About 3.30. Straight after I knock off work.’ He looked at Warren a little suspiciously. ‘Hey, how come you’re so keen to get me to this party? You’ve been at me about it all week.’

  Warren glanced up from his cup of coffee and tried to look indifferent. ‘Oh … no particular reason,’ he said. ‘I … just thought you might like to come to a good party, that’s all. There’ll be a heap of sheilas there.’

  ‘Mmhh.’

  It was about eight o’clock on a Saturday night. Les Norton was in the kitchen ironing his shirt, getting ready to go to work at the Kelly Club. Warren, who shared his house with him, was sitting at the kitchen table sipping on a cup of coffee. Earlier in the week Warren had invited Norton to this party at Randwick run by some girls who worked for Qantas. The party didn’t start till midnight so Warren said it would suit Les down to the ground seeing as he finished work at 3. He also assured him there would be a heap of girls there and he couldn’t miss out. He didn’t mention that he’d been getting onto one of the girls there behind her boyfriend’s back and the boyfriend had just found out and was not particularly amused and was seriously thinking of extracting several pints of Warren’s advertising executive blood. With Norton there as an insurance there wasn’t much chance that would happen.

  ‘So you’ll be there about 3.30?’

  ‘Yeah, about then.’ Norton finished ironing his shirt and glanced up at the wall clock above the fridge. ‘Well — I’ve got time for a quick cup of coffee and a sandwich then I’d better get to the pickle factory.’

  About two hours after he started work Les was standing out the front talking about nothing much in particular to Billy Dunne, his dark-haired, nuggety offsider.

  They stood there watching the patrons come and go and having a laugh about the different types of Kings Cross denizens drifting past and for a Saturday night were doing it pretty cosy. About 1.30 Billy was commenting about how easy the night had been when what should come trooping bumptiously round the corner of Kelly Street but a gang of six skinheads, all
decked out in their grubby denim jackets, Auschwitz haircuts and braces supporting grubby denim jeans rolled up over their Sam Brown boots. Most of them were drinking beer out of cans rolled up in newspaper and they were all looking for trouble; which meant giving a couple of harmless gays a kicking or snatching handbags off little old ladies. If they couldn’t accomplish either of these daring feats of bravery they’d settle for kicking over a few garbage bins or leaving all the taps running in the public toilets.

  As soon as they drew close Billy and Les couldn’t help but start laughing at them.

  ‘See something funny, do you, man?’ said one of the skins as they trooped past.

  ‘I was just wondering,’ said Norton politely, ‘if that was a haircut or someone had shoved your head in a pencil-sharpener.’

  ‘Yeah, why don’t you throw a party in your boots and invite your jeans down,’ said Billy.

  ‘How about I invite you for a smack in the mouth.’ There was absolutely no way in the world the skinheads would have been game enough to fight the two doormen but they didn’t mind mouthing off.

  ‘Ohh, look, if you’re gonna stand there talking, go up-wind a bit, will you. You smell like two ton of lobster bait,’ said Norton.

  ‘Yeah, what have you been doing? Using dog s*?! for toothpaste,’ chimed in Billy.

  ‘I might just come over there and give you a chance to find out, flip,’ said the biggest of the group. A tall gangly one with green and blond hair.

  As they were standing there trading insults with the gang they thought they heard someone call out to them from the stairway leading into the club. They both turned around to see one of the croupiers coming down the stairs to get a bit of fresh air. Just as they did, the green-haired skin saw his chance and ran over and punched Les in the back of the head, then spun on his heel to join his mates who were running off down the street. Billy and the enraged Norton whirled around to see the unfortunate skinhead slip on a piece of orange peel Billy had tossed towards the gutter earlier and with a shriek of terror pitch forward onto his knees. He no sooner did than Billy zoomed up alongside him and hauled him roughly to his feet by his braces just in time for Norton to land a short right rip into his solar plexus that almost ruptured his spleen. All of a sudden ‘greenhair’ was in an awful lot of bother. His skinhead pals were about 100 yards up the road and he was firmly in the grip of two absolutely ropeable doormen.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Les, don’t kill him,’ came a voice from the doorway of the club.

  Norton turned around to see the croupier standing there a little horrified. ‘No, Allan, I’ve got a better idea than that,’ he said, as he and Billy dragged the terrified skinhead over to the front of the club.

  Les had a few words with the croupier, who looked at him quizzically for a second then ran back up the stairs to the storeroom to come running back down a few minutes later with a large tube of superglue and a toilet brush.

  With a thoroughly fiendish look on his face, Norton squeezed the tube of superglue all over ‘greenhair’s’ close-cropped skull while Billy held him. Satisfied there was enough there, he jammed the toilet brush on his head with the handle sticking out the back. In 30 seconds it was stuck fast and the only way you would be able to get it off would be to remove half his scalp.

  ‘There you go, mate,’ said Norton cheerfully to ‘greenhair’ who was almost in tears. ‘You want to get round smelling like a s*?!house, you may as well look like one.’ He propelled him around and gave him a boot up the arse that almost had him wearing his arsehole for a collar.

  ‘You’ve got a funny sense of humour, Les,’ said Billy, as he and the croupier leant up against the wall roaring with laughter.

  ‘I have me moments,’ grinned Norton.

  Apart from that little incident the rest of the night went smoother than a Mormon’s hair cut. They were out of the club by 3.20. Norton had retrieved the case of Fourex he’d left upstairs in the fridge earlier and was sitting in his car checking the address in his Gregory’s.

  ‘Now what was that address again?’ he said to himself, as he looked at the piece of paper still in the top pocket of his tuxedo. ‘29 Sattler Street, Randwick.’

  He flicked through the street directory. ‘Uh-huh. Straight up Avoca, into Cowper and it’s just down by the racecourse. Couldn’t be creamier.’

  He kicked the old Ford over and was on his way; he pulled up out the front about 15 minutes later.

  The front door was open and the lights were on but oddly enough there didn’t seem to be a soul around. I thought this party didn’t start till 12, Norton said to himself, as he switched off the motor and the car radio. Can’t see anyone around. Oh well. May as well go and have a look, I s’pose. He got the two dozen cans off the front seat, locked the car and walked up to the house.

  All the evidence of a party was there when he walked inside. Beer cans, bottles and glasses were strewn all over the drink sodden, cigarette-burnt carpet in the loungeroom. A few tatty streamers dangled forlornly from the ceiling and in the corner a stereo was tuned to an FM station, but barely audible.

  ‘Anybody home?’ he called out, as he clomped down the hallway to the kitchen. Compared to the kitchen, the loungeroom looked like a showroom in a housing exhibition. There was food, drink, glasses, bottles and garbage everywhere. Standing amongst all the crap, on either side of the room were three men and two women. The girls looked quite pleased to see Norton arrive: the men looked at him like he’d just broken out of a leper colony.

  The two girls weren’t bad sorts. A homely looking blonde with big boobs and straight, straw-coloured hair. Her girlfriend was a little shorter with a pixie face and short, crimped auburn hair. The sallow-faced men were all fairly solid. Two had dark hair but the biggest guy — bigger than Les — had fair hair and high cheekbones and a square angular jaw and face. He looked like he could have been German or Scandinavian.

  ‘G’day,’ said Norton cheerfully, looking mainly at the girls. ‘I’m a mate of Warren’s. He told me about your party.’

  ‘I know no Varren,’ grunted the big blond-haired bloke sullenly. ‘You are not invited, get out.’ He jerked his thumb towards the kitchen door.

  ‘It’s our party,’ said the fair-haired girl, ‘and we’ll invite who we like. Anyway, what’s your name?’

  ‘Les.’

  ‘Hello, Les. I’m Val and this is Alison.’ She didn’t bother to introduce the three men.

  ‘Hello, girls. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Why don’t you put your beer in the fridge, Les,’ said Alison.

  ‘All right, I will.’

  Norton put the two dozen Fourex in the refrigerator, took three cans out and gave two to the girls after he’d removed the ring-pulls. He didn’t worry about the three men as they hadn’t actually rolled out the red carpet for him when he walked in. Norton could sense the vibes in the kitchen and in about two minutes had sussed out the situation. The girls lived there and it was obviously their party. They wanted to get rid of the three guys and go to bed but the guys were hanging back in a last ditch effort to get into their pants. Norton arriving on the scene hadn’t made things any easier for them. Oh well, he thought. They can do what they want. I’ll just have a couple of beers and piss off myself.

  ‘Anyway, Karl,’ said Val, ‘I think it’s about time you and your friends left. It’s almost four o’clock.’

  ‘I go ven I vant to go,’ replied Karl haughtily, as his two mates smiled in unison. ‘Besides. Party continue now — ve have more beer.’ He nodded towards the fridge.

  ‘I think you’d better ask me first,’ smiled Norton, sucking lustily on his can of Fourex. Beneath the smile Les was starting to get a bit pissed off with Karl’s attitude and the looks he was getting.

  ‘Ask?’ snorted Karl. ‘I don’t bloody ask. I bloody take. Besides, is only that s*?! Kveensland beer.’

  Norton spurted a mouthful of beer back in his can. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Fourex. S*?! Queensland beer. That w
as the ultimate gross insult to Norton. Karl may as well have pissed on the flag.

  ‘Well if that’s the case, knackers,’ he said tightly, ‘you and your two soapy mates don’t get nothin’.’ He finished his can, threw the empty in the sink and to prove his point got another one out of the fridge and stood in front of it. ‘Not bad beer this,’ he smiled cheekily, as he started sucking on the can. ‘Pity you and your two mates aren’t getting any.’

  ‘Ve soon see about that.’

  Karl made a lunge at Norton who didn’t even bother to drop his can as he hit the big fair-haired mug with a short right that spread his nose across his face like a rotten banana. Norton swapped his beer into his right hand and, as Karl cannoned into the stove, hit him with a withering left-hook as he bounced back. All Karl’s teeth looked like someone hitting a piano with a sledge-hammer and it was lights out. The bloke on Norton’s right moved tentatively towards him and Norton hit him with a head butt that made the girls scream a little and shook every cup and plate in the kitchen. He fell forward onto his knees straight into the toe of Norton’s R.M. Williams riding boot coming the other way at about 100 miles per hour. His face caved in and it was good night for him also. That left just one to go.

  ‘Well, what do you want to do, matey?’ said Norton, still holding his can of Fourex.

  The third guy swallowed hard as he looked at his two friends lying on the kitchen floor, bleeding and snoring at the same time.

  ‘I, ah … think I just want to go home now.’

  ‘Good idea, son. Come on I’ll give you a hand to get them out to your car.’

  Norton turned chivalrously to the two slack-jawed girls. ‘You can stay here, girls,’ he said. ‘We can manage this.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry about that,’ said Norton, after the others had left, leaving him and the two girls alone in the kitchen. ‘I’ll finish this beer and get going.’

  ‘Ohh, that’s all right: said Val. ‘Stay and have a talk for a while. I don’t feel like going to bed just yet.’

  ‘Me either,’ said Alison.

  ‘Okay,’ smiled Norton. ‘I may as well stay and have a few, I s’pose.’