Still Riding on the Storm

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Hey. The Buzz,’ Les called out. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Hey, Les.’ Buzzy smiled and stepped over to the car. ‘I’m waiting for a cab. I’m going over the Oashey.’

  ‘Well, ain’t this is your lucky day, Buzzy boy. So am I. Jump in and I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘Ohh. Fuckin unreal. Thanks Les.’

  Buzzy climbed in the front seat, buckled up and they continued on up Campbell Parade to turn left at Silva Street then cut down behind Tamarama and Bronte.

  ‘So how’s things, Buzzy?’ asked Les.

  ‘Not bad, Les. Getting plenty of work,’ replied Buzzy.

  ‘You seen much of The Hog lately?’

  ‘Actually I’m meeting Ravishing Ronnie over there.’

  ‘Yeah? I might stop and say hello. How’s he going?’ inquired Les.

  ‘Good. He’s living up in Bondi Junction with two girls.’

  Les chuckled. ‘Some girls have all the luck, don’t they.’

  ‘Yeah,’ laughed Buzzy. ‘How come you’re going over there? I thought the place was off limits for you.’

  ‘I’m just going to pick up some photos,’ said Les. ‘I won’t be there long.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Les and Buzzy chatted away about old times at their flat and different other things. Tamarama and Bronte fell away and before long Les was heading down Arden Street then up the hill, fluking a parking spot almost opposite the hotel when a young girl pulled out in a grey SUV.

  ‘I got to duck into the TAB for a minute,’ said Buzzy as Les locked the car. ‘I’ll see you up there.’

  ‘Righto mate.’ Les left Buzzy to do his thing and walked across to the stairs leading up to Full Moon Lounge.

  Les could hear the band belting out their version of Dragon’s ‘April Sun in Cuba’ as he started up the stairs and when Les reached the top he found the place was going off. Everybody had a drink in their hand, the dance floor was almost full and the four-piece band was right on the money. Les stopped then smiled as he let his eyes wander over the chairs and tables. There were all the Bondi girls he’d got to know. All seated around looking lovely and like butter wouldn’t melt in their sweet little mouths. And sure enough, a bloke walked over to one table, asked a girl in yellow for a dance, and just as sure, she looked at him like he had tarantulas crawling all over him and waved him away. Les looked at his watch, counted roughly twenty seconds and sure enough, the girl in yellow got up and headed for the dance floor with a girlfriend in blue. Les smiled, shook his head and was about to go looking for Alan when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned round expecting Alan. Instead it was a tall skinny waxhead in a pair of white jeans and a white T-shirt — Greg Waldrum.

  ‘Hello Les,’ the waxhead said a little nervously.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Les smiled mirthlessly. ‘If it isn’t my old mate Gregory Waldrum. Long time, no see, Waldo.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m sorry about that, Les,’ said Greg. ‘I really am.’

  ‘So you should be, the Walds. Taking advantage of my kind and gregarious nature. With not so much as a fond farewell.’

  Roughly six months previously, Les had been full of drink one night at the Bondi Hotel and somehow Greg had put the snip on Norton for two hundred and fifty dollars to get him out of some trouble. Les knew Greg through some other people and liked and trusted him. Then after loaning him the money, never saw him again until today. Les wasn’t all that happy.

  ‘I know, Les,’ admitted Greg. ‘I did the wrong thing. But I was in deep shit at the time and I had to sneak out of town in a hurry.’

  ‘You certainly managed to do that, Waldo,’ said Les. ‘Along with my two fifty.’

  ‘Yeah. But it’s all sweet,’ smiled Greg. ‘I’ve been working on my brother’s oyster farm up the north coast. We had a terrific year. And …’ Greg fished in his jeans and came out with a wad of money. He peeled off three hundred dollars and handed it to Norton. ‘There’s your money, Les. Plus another fifty bucks interest.’

  Norton took the money, counted, it then looked at Greg and gave him fifty back. ‘You don’t have to pay any extra, Waldo. I’m not the bloody Mafia.’

  ‘Oh? Okay.’

  ‘And you can afford this? I’m not actually broke at the moment,’ said Les. ‘Another time will be okay. Fuck. I’d just about written the money off anyway.’

  ‘No,’ Greg shook his head. ‘Take it, Les. And I’m sorry it took me so long.’

  Les pocketed the money and shook Greg’s hand. ‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘Thanks mate. Anyway,’ added Les, ‘I came over here to meet someone.’

  ‘Okay Les. I might have a drink with you before you go.’

  ‘We’ll see what happens,’ replied Les, turning away.

  Well, that’s not a bad way to start the afternoon, Les smiled to himself, patting the money in the front pocket of his jeans. Now where’s Alan and I’ll get out of here before I get tempted. I’ve got a kick full of dough and there’s some bloody good sorts here. Les gazed round the crowd at the top of the stairs as the band slipped into ‘Rock Lobster’. It didn’t take Les long to find Alan’s bushy dark hair among the crowd. He was wearing a green check shirt over a pair of jeans and carrying a white envelope. Les walked over to him.

  ‘Hey Alan,’ smiled Les. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Les. How are you mate,’ Alan smiled back. ‘Here’s those photos I was telling you about.’

  Les took the sealed envelope. ‘Shit. Thanks Alan,’ he said, slipping them down the front of his jeans. ‘I won’t open them here. But I might have a soda water with you. Can I get you a drink?’

  Alan shook his head. ‘No. I just got one thanks.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be back in a sec.’ Les turned and started along the wide aisle where the chairs and tables ended before the dance floor. He hadn’t gone far when he noticed some strange movements on the dance floor. He had a closer look and laughed. It was Ronnie Dickson in a pair of blue shorts and a white T-shirt, drunk and dancing around as usual like Yogi Bear falling out of a tree. He was with a couple of girls Les knew, who were laughing at his antics and even though Ronnie would bump into a few people on the dance floor he’d apologise and they’d take no notice except to smile at his strange, boisterous antics. However, watching Ronnie intently from near the bar corner was a solid, sour-faced bouncer with fair hair wearing the usual white shirt, bow tie and black trousers. He watched Ronnie bump into someone else then stormed over to him through the dancers. They weren’t far from where Les was standing and even over the band, Les could hear the bouncer shouting in Ronnie’s face.

  ‘Hey fuckin you,’ roared the bouncer. ‘Behave yourself. Or get off the dance floor.’

  ‘What are you talking about, you dill,’ Ronnie answered a little belligerently. ‘I’m only having a dance.’

  ‘Yeah. Leave him alone,’ said one of the girls, wearing a denim skirt and top. ‘He’s not doing any harm.’

  ‘You shut up,’ the bouncer snapped at the girl. ‘And you,’ he said, giving Ronnie a shove. ‘Don’t call me a dill. And get off the fuckin dance floor. Or I’ll fuckin throw you off.’

  Ronnie was that drunk he was flat out walking let alone trying to dance. ‘Oh, in your arse,’ he slurred, giving the bouncer a harmless push back.

  That was enough for the sour-faced bouncer. He stepped back and king hit Ronnie with a solid straight right fair in the face. It lifted Ronnie completely off his feet and if Ronnie hadn’t bumped into a few people on the way down he would have hit his head hard on the dance floor and probably fractured his skull. As it was he did bump his head on the floor and between that and the bouncer’s punch, Ronnie was left lying on the dance floor with his eyes open, out like a light. Several girls screamed while the other dancers stepped back in shock.

  ‘Ohh what did you have to that for, you arsehole,’ yelled the girl in denim. ‘He wasn’t hurting anybody.’

  ‘You shut your fuckin mouth, bitch,’ snarled the bouncer.

/>   ‘Ohh, big man,’ came a voice from the crowd.

  ‘What a fuckin hero,’ came another voice.

  ‘You’re good at bashing up drunks, aren’t you, you dopey big prick,’ came another voice, this time a girl’s.

  Norton winced as he stared at Ronnie lying out cold on the dance floor. What the fair-haired bouncer did was brutal, vicious and inexcusable. Les and Billy were as tough as any other blokes getting around and they would no sooner king hit a drunk than fly in the air. If someone at the club got a bit out of it and started playing up, they’d carefully take him under the arms and escort him to the stairs. If he got a bit shirty on the way, Billy would sink a short rip into his liver and that would be it. They would then let him down gently to rest somewhere till the pain wore off and tell him to come back when he was sober. But not this bully boy. Instead of getting another bouncer and carrying Ronnie off the dance floor, putting the incident out of people’s minds, he jumped back and shaped up to the crowd like he was Mike Tyson.

  ‘All right, come on,’ the bouncer shouted, all puffed up from his easy victory. ‘Anybody else fancy themselves? Come on, step up. Come on. Anybody else want to have a go?’

  Les looked at the ranting bouncer, looked at the startled girls, looked at all the blokes keen to do something but shuffling their feet then looked again at his old mate Ronnie out cold on the floor. He straightened his shoulders and stepped up in front of the bouncer.

  ‘Yeah, righto,’ nodded Les, and let go a short straight right into the bouncer’s face with all his shoulder and weight behind it.

  It made the punch the bouncer had thrown look as hard as a honey bee landing on a flower. He flew back over the chairs and tables and landed in an awful mess against the wall around from the bar. Still seeing red, Les was about to step over and do a bit of Balmain folk dancing along the bouncer’s ribs, when another bouncer with dark hair nervously stepped in front him.

  ‘It’s all right mate,’ said the bouncer. ‘He’s a mug. We’ll take care of him.’

  At the sound of the bouncer’s voice Les settled down. ‘All right,’ he said evenly. ‘Then take care of my mate on the dance floor. And he’d not better be hurt too bad either.’ He glanced towards the people standing around the unconscious bouncer. ‘The fuckin prick.’

  ‘No problem,’ assured the bouncer. ‘We’ll sort it all out. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Good.’

  Les thought for a moment then while the band finished their snappy version of ‘Rock Lobster’ turned and made a beeline for the stairs, quickly weaving his way through the people coming up as he went down. He trotted across to his car, got in and started the engine when he noticed Buzzy jogging across the road towards him. Les wound down the window.

  ‘Yeah Buzzy,’ said Les. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Hey, did you just flatten a blond-headed bouncer upstairs?’

  Les hesitated for a moment. ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘I just saw them carrying him out,’ said Buzzy. ‘Christ! You should have seen his face. He looked like some kind of monster.’

  ‘Was he breathing?’

  ‘More like snoring,’ smiled Buzzy. ‘But he was definitely alive.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Les. ‘But will you do me a favour, Buzzy?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘If anybody asks, say it wasn’t me. Someone that looked like me.’

  ‘No worries,’ assured Buzzy.

  ‘Thanks. And will you give me a ring and tell me how Ronnie is?’

  ‘Okay.’ Buzzy could see that Les was keen to make himself scarce. He tapped the roof of the car. ‘See you, Les.’

  ‘Yeah. See you, Buzzy.’ Les put the Holden in drive and headed for Bondi.

  On the way home Les was sweating a little. What he’d just done was an assault, no matter how you looked at it. In fact after what Buzzy told him, it would be — assault to occasion actual bodily harm. Plus one bouncer had lamped him up close and you could bet the incident would be on surveillance TV. It didn’t look good. On the other hand, the bouncer had no right to assault Ronnie like he did, then stand back and challenge the crowd. Les was just … just defending himself. If anything Ronnie was entitled to sue the hotel over what happened. Les looked at the rear-vision mirror to check the traffic behind and his face broke into a grin. He only just noticed that the whole time he was there he’d forgotten to take his sunglasses off. The lenses weren’t that dark, but they would cover his eyes and that would throw a nice Spaniard in the works if the hotel wanted to carry on. By the time he pulled up out the front of Chez Norton, Les was smiling again. He took the photos from his jeans, went inside, tossed his sunglasses in the kitchen and made a cup of coffee. With his coffee in his hand, Les sat down in the loungeroom and started going through the photos.

  The photos were even better than Les had expected and Alan had also enlarged them a size. There was one ripper of Les crashing over the line with four Manly players holding him and Norton’s big arm stretched out putting the ball down. The hit on Harry Hamilton looked like a train wreck and the photo of him getting carted off on a stretcher almost sent a shiver up your spine. All up, they were great photos and well worth the trip over to the Oashey, stupid bouncer or no stupid bouncer.

  ‘Shit! These are fantastic,’ chuckled Les. ‘I’ll get a couple of them blown right up.’

  Then the first thing I’ll do after that, Les told himself, is go over to Alan’s house with a slab and a bottle of Jackies. I’ll also see if I can sneak him a bit of Warren’s home grown. I’m sure Alan still likes a hot one. Les went through the photos again and decided which ones he’d get enlarged, then put the photos aside and made himself another cup of coffee. He took it back into the loungeroom and was about to listen to some music when he started thinking about the other phone call he received on Saturday. It didn’t quite fill Norton’s heart with joy.

  The call was from Richard McNee, a medium-built plumber with neat brown hair on top of a happy-go-lucky face who Les had got to know from around Bondi. Richard McNee naturally got nicknamed Dicky Knee, which in the inimitable Bondi style was soon shortened to just plain ‘The Knee’. Actually, The Knee was a bit of an enigma to Les. He was definitely a plumber. But the word was about that he did a bit of pimping on the side and had a small stable of girls working for him around the Eastern Suburbs. One thing for sure, Dicky never seemed to work that much, drove a nice new car as well as his plumber’s van and owned two home units in North Bondi. Les wasn’t surprised or concerned that much about anything people got up to around Bondi. But he did draw the line at pimping.

  Les had met Dicky down the Rex and found him a cheerful bloke with a throaty laugh who loved getting young ladies and trying to throw them up in the air, something at which the good-natured plumber was fairly successful. Over time, Les finished up owing The Knee a few favours. The first time was when Norton’s Holden shit itself in Bondi Road. Dicky was going past. He stopped, got his jumper leads out and soon had Les on his way again. Another time, when Norton’s trusty Holden threw in the towel at Rose Bay, Dicky was going past again and this time Norton’s car was beyond a jump start. So Dicky got a rope out of his van and towed Les home.

  The third, and most important time, was when Les got into fight with a big Samoan at the Rex over a spilt beer that wasn’t even Norton’s fault. The Samoan got all full of boozy threats and warrior courage, so Les put a quick left hook on his jaw. Just as Les was about to follow up with a nice short right, one of the Samoan’s girlfriends jumped up on Norton’s back and put a stranglehold on him. Fighting a 195 kilogram Samoan around 200 centimetres high is extremely difficult at the best of times, but when a woman almost as big is trying to choke you, it’s near impossible. The big Samoan cleared his head just as Dicky ran across and dragged the woman off Norton’s back. The big Samoan went to tackle Les, only to charge straight into Norton’s right knee, which smashed his nose and relieved him of several teeth. After that and with his hands now free it was no contest and the big Samoan fin
ished up out cold on the cigarette-burnt carpet looking like he’d just fallen into a reaper and binder. Les never forgot Dicky’s quick thinking and told him if he ever needed a favour, all he had to do was ask. And ask The Knee did. About twenty minutes after Les had received the call from Alan Pearson the day before, Les had been fiddling around in the laundry when he heard the phone ring. He walked into the lounge room and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Les. It’s Dicky Knee,’ came the reply.

  ‘The Knee,’ said Les. ‘How are you mate?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘That’s good,’ smiled Les. ‘So what can I do for you, old fellah?’

  ‘Well,’ answered The Knee. ‘You know when you told me if ever I needed a favour, all I had to do was ask?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s right,’ said Les.

  ‘Well, I need one, Les. Bad.’

  ‘Okay.’ Les sat down and made himself comfortable. ‘What’s your problem, Dicky?’

  ‘I got a big mug wants to bash the shit of me,’ replied Dicky forlornly.

  ‘Does he now?’ said Les. ‘And if I might ask, Dicky, why does the party concerned wish to administer this severe beating upon your person? You always seemed like a pleasant enough fellow to me, young Richard.’

  ‘Ohh, I threw his girlfriend up in the air. And he also wants to take over my run.’

  ‘Your run?’

  ‘Yeah. My pimp run. I take it out every second Monday.’

  This made Norton’s ears prick up. ‘Your pimp run, Dicky? As in hooking? Or prostitution?’

  ‘Yeah. Sort of like that,’ admitted Dicky.

  ‘Shit, Dicky. I’m not so sure I want to help people involved in such low-life activities.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as you think, Les,’ pleaded Dicky.

  ‘Not as bad? What do you think I see around me every night at work, Dicky? It’s fuckin disgusting.’