Robert G. Barrett was raised in Bondi where he has worked mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career as a writer.
Also by Robert G. Barrett in Pan
YOU WOULDN’T BE DEAD FOR QUIDS THE REAL THING THE BOYS FROM BINJIWUNYAWUNYA THE GODSON BETWEEN THE DEVLIN AND THE DEEP BLUE SEAS WHITE SHOES, WHITE LINES AND BLACKIE AND DE FUN DON’T DONE MELE KALIKIMAKA MR WALKER THE DAY OF THE GECKO RIDER ON THE STORM AND OTHER BITS AND BARRETT GUNS ’N’ ROSÉ
ROBERT G.
BARRETT
Davo’s Little
Something
This is a work of fiction and all characters in this book are a creation of the author’s imagination.
First published 1992 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Publishers Australia This edition published by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited 1 Market Street, Sydney
Reprinted 1992, 1993 (twice), 1994, 1995, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2001 2002, 2004, 2006, 2009, 2011
Copyright © Robert G Barrett 1992
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Barrett, Robert G
Davo’s little something
ISBN 978 0 330 27292 6
I. Title.
A823.3
Typeset in 9/11 pt Varitimes by Midland Typesetters, Maryborough
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
This book is dedicated to Larry Crane and Michael Stevens. Michael Stevens I never knew but Fat Larry from Maroubra was a mate of mine. Neither man deserved to die in the despicable manner in which they did.
The author would like to thank the following people for their invaluable assistance in the research and writing of this book: Thank you.
Dr JJ Kearney M.B.B.S (SYD). F.R.A.C.G.P.
Dr Gordion Fulde F.R.A.C.S. F.A.C.E.M. and the staff in the Casualty Ward at St Vincent’s Hospital Sydney
Det. Const. First Class Glenn Moriarty—Police Prosecutor
The staff and assistants at the City Morgue and Glebe Coroner’s Court
John Wishart at the Gay Media Service
And a very special thanks to Sister Colleen McGrath S.R.N. S.C.M., now Mrs Colleen Burke.
‘Whack-whack-whack-whack-whack.’ The sharp-edged meat chopper crunched easily through the last of the rolled loins of lamb turning them into short-loin chops. Bob Davis scooped them up off the wooden block and placed them on the stainless steel tray sitting on the rubber rollers in front of him. From there one of the girls would weigh, price and pack them into small white polystyrene trays, to be heat-sealed with Glad wrap and stacked in the refrigerated display cabinet at the front of the supermarket butcher shop.
‘Righto,’ he said, flicking a few bone splinters off his hands and turning to Len Thompson the butcher shop manager. That’s the last of the lamb chops. I might split those two pigs.’
Just then Irene Van Heeden the head packer came in through the swinging glass door that separated the butchery from the supermarket. ‘We could do with some more T-bones out there,’ she said, looking at Len Thompson. ‘There’s only about half a dozen left.’
‘I might as well do that,’ said Bob Davis. ‘I was gonna break up those rumps and loins anyway.’
Len grunted something in approval without moving his eyes from the topside he was slicing up with a huge steak knife on the block next to Bob. Bob turned to enter the cool room almost colliding with Dennis O’Brien the apprentice. Dennis was running a sloshy mound of lean beef trimmings through the mincer on the stainless steel bench behind them. They crunched and slithered noisily out onto a stainless steel tray balanced on a plastic milk crate, ready to be weighed up and packed as Best Quality Topside Mince. Bob disappeared into the cool room, soon re-emerging with a rump and loin cradled in his arms.
Despite the repetitious, sometimes arduous work, Bob was whistling cheerfully to himself as he dumped the heavy, fatty rump and loin onto the block he’d just been working on. It took a lot to sour the happy demeanour of Bob Davis or ‘Davo’ as most everybody called him. Davo didn’t mind butchering for a living. He liked the people he worked with and he was the life of the small butcher shop at Woolworths supermarket in Bondi Junction.
With his dark brown hair, parted slightly on the side, hazel eyes and squared jaw, he had that typical, rugged, laconic Aussie look about him. The smiling, good bloke face you see on TV in dozens of beer and truck commercials. Tall and somewhat overweight, he wasn’t unlike his immediate boss, only Len was slightly taller, beefier, a bit older and had red hair going grey round the sides. Len was also married with two kids whereas Davo had been divorced three years and was still single; which was probably why Davo was so happy Len often used to think to himself when he’d go home a bit pissed and his wife would start nagging at him the minute he walked in the front door.
Len liked working with Davo and was glad he had him in the shop. He brightened the place up and although his silly tricks and mucking around could get a little punishing at times, Davo always pulled his weight, never complained in earnest and if ever anyone was sick or hungover from the drink, Davo would carry him without grumbling about it. Instead he’d make a joke of the situation, always at the other person’s expense of course.
In fact they were all a fairly happy crew in that particular butcher shop. Dennis the wiry framed apprentice with his black hair and pimply face tried hard, although at times it looked as if he was walking around in his sleep. But that was mainly from football training—Dennis played league with Bondi United. He was a pretty good fullback for seventeen and there was a fair chance he’d be playing first grade with Easts before he was twenty.
Out the back in the loading dock, having a quick puff on a cigarette while he sharpened his knives, was Eddie Fuller the shop’s other butcher. Eddie, twenty-seven and married, was a country boy from Grafton and looked much like a bigger version of young Dennis except that his arms were covered in the most ghastly display of tattoos imaginable. Chains round his wrists, spiders, Popeye, dogs piddling against tombstones. The first time Davo met Eddie, when the supermarket opened about two years previous, he’d nicknamed him Moving Pictures after a popular rock band. But although the tattoos gave Eddie a tough, almost sinister appearance, a nicer, easier going bloke you’d hardly wish to meet.
Even the girls got on well together, with never any bitchiness, cattiness or back stabbing. Irene Van Heeden, the stocky, blonde head meat packer in her mid forties, might have got a little stroppy now and then, but Dutchy—as everyone called her because she was married to a Dutchman—only did this because she was responsible for all the meat that went out and had to keep the other girls in line.
The only one that gave a bit of cheek now and then was Kathy Fergusson; mainly because Davo would stir her up and she still had a bit of a wild streak in her from spending six months in Mulawa when she was seventeen for supply and possession of LSD. But that was almost ten years ago, and Kathy, with her plain rarely made up face and spiky dark hair, was now engaged to a bass player in a moderately
successful rock group and hoped to be married before Christmas.
If Kathy gave the odd bit of lip Marie Papas, the young Greek girl, hardly said a word. Long black hair piled up on top of her head and eyes almost as dark as her hair, she looked like a typical Greek girl in her early twenties. Marie and her Greek carpenter husband lived in the same block of units at Charing Cross as Krystina Marjanovic, the Yugoslavian girl who worked there, though they rarely saw that much of each other outside of work. Solid but attractive, with two flaxen plaits hanging out from under her white work cap like some Viking maiden, Krystina and her Australian panel beater husband kept pretty much to themselves, mainly because Krystina was three months pregnant. Which you would hardly notice except for a dramatic swelling in her breasts. Which Dave certainly noticed; every day, inch by increasing inch.
Davo looked up from the rump and loin as Eddie returned from out the back and stood under the meat rail that led out to the loading dock, slowly steeling his boning knife which he then tested by gingerly touching his thumb against the edge.
‘Alright are they?’ said Davo.
‘Skin a mouse,’ replied Eddie, with a bit of a wink.
‘Yeah? Well how about a loan of one. This bloody rump and loin’s like a block of bloody wood.’ Davo punched in frustration at the hard, white fat. ‘Fair dinkum, Len, you’re gonna have to turn the room down. This is ridic’.’
‘Light a little fire in there,’ smiled the manager sarcastically, still without looking up from what he was doing.
‘I’d like to light a fire under you, you red-headed clown,’ replied Davo, still struggling with the almost rock hard rump and loin. From where she was weighing meat on a set of scales, Kathy glanced up and started singing ‘come on baby light my fire’. Davo gave her a filthy look but hints of laughter were creasing round his eyes. ‘You don’t have to go to Harold Park to find gigs do you,’ he said.
Eddie moved aside to let Dennis take the tray of mince over to the rollers, then opened the cool-room door that faced onto the corridor. ‘You want me to knock those two pigs over, Len?’
The manager thought for a moment before answering. ‘Yeah righto,’ he said. ‘And while you’re in there rotate all the meat, and any stuff that’s goin’ off, toss in a tub and you can trim it up and make some more mince, Dennis.’ He looked up briefly from the block to catch the apprentice’s eye as Eddie gathered up a handful of S-hooks from a wooden box sitting on the sawdust-covered floor, dropped them noisily into an aluminium Warwick tub and disappeared into the cool room.
Davo gave an audible grunt as he drove the heel of his knife through the fat to separate the rump from the loin; despite the difficulty he was still whistling to himself. He looked up at Krystina’s jutting breasts, level with and almost in front of his face and started thinking about his ex-wife Sue’s big breasts. Before long the constant rubbing against the block had caused a distinct stirring in his loins; he chuckled to himself as he looked at the unsuspecting Krystina and continued working.
Although it was almost three years since their divorce he still often thought about Sue. Her curly blonde hair, her blue eyes, her top body. When their marriage had been good it was something else. But towards the end . . . ? Not that he could blame Sue for wanting to do better. What was he? A battling butcher who was that tired half the time he hardly ever wanted to go out and although they’d lived quite well there was no way in the world he was ever going to finish up a millionaire. And Sue had seen the other side—for less hours she made more money as a secretary in a law firm full of rich solicitors and barristers with Mercedes and BMW’s and homes in Rose Bay and St Ives. And whenever her bosses had condescendingly asked her about him, they’d always referred to him as ‘Pigshead The Butcher’. He’d met some of them on different occasions and felt like giving them ‘Pigshead The Butcher’ right on the chin but most of them were ex-Rugby Union internationals and Davo, not being a fighting man, knew how he’d finish up—as well as making a complete fool of himself he’d be on his arse. He gazed absently out the butcher shop window at some women fastidiously picking through the cartons of meat in the refrigerated display cabinet. Yeah; who could blame Sue for wanting to do a bit better.
And better eventually came in the form of ex-St George Rugby League forward and Fraud Squad detective Ron Moody, who had just retired from the police force to buy a hotel at Cronulla.
‘He’s probably bought the pub with all the slings he’s taken over the years—the prick,’ he remembered saying to her bitterly the night she told him she was leaving.
‘Frankly, I don’t give a stuff where he got the money, Bob,’ was Sue’s equally bitter reply. ‘But he’s got it and you just bloody well haven’t.’
And that was about it in a nutshell; and nothing much he could do. He couldn’t really belt Sue, he’d only make a bigger fool of himself, and Moody was just as tough off the field as what he was on. Even if Davo had been some sort of fighter or heavy, Moody would have put a bullet in his head or got one of his copper mates to find a gun or a bag of heroin in the glove box of his car. So Davo just had to cop it sweet as they say and even though he wasn’t the type to bear a grudge he was hurt deeply—no two ways about it. But it was all water under the bridge now and the few times he’d bumped into Sue and Moody since they got married it was smiles and handshakes all round. Though deep inside Davo would dearly have loved to tell her to go and pull her fanny over her head and him to go shit in his rotten ex-copper’s hat.
Ironically enough, two months after their divorce, Davo and one of his mates won $60,000 between them in a Jackpot Lottery. After shouting his parents a holiday on Lindeman Island the first thing he did was give Sue back the $7500 she’d put into their home unit in Bondi Road, that Davo still lived in. She didn’t really want it, Moody was quite rich, and she’d told Davo to pay her back if ever he sold the unit; her little act of compassion for dumping him. But Davo insisted. It was worth $7500 just to see that momentary look of remorse on her face when he handed her the money. She even reached out and tenderly, hesitantly touched his cheek and there was definitely a bit of a tear in her soft blue eyes as he wished her all the best then turned and walked out of the hotel. Which was probably why she and Moody always smiled and felt a bit selfconscious if ever they happened to bump into him somewhere. Good bloke Davo they’d always think—honest as they come and definitely wears his heart on his sleeve.
He trimmed the sirloin, sliced it into even-width steaks and started running it through the band saw. Yeah that $30,000 was a nice bolt out of the blue alright he mused to himself. At least somebody up there still loves me, that’s for sure. After he’d paid her, given the oldies their holiday, got right in front with the payments on the unit and updated his old Holdenutility for a better one there was still around $20,000 left in the bank with what he already had in there. Not quite enough to tell Mr Murray Brinsden the overweight, overbearing general manager of the supermarket what he could do with his butcher shop, but a nice little something to have tucked away all the same.
Who’d want to leave here anyway he thought. It certainly wasn’t the Burma railway and compared to some of the shops he’d worked in it was like an old folks’ home. Uniform supplied, good money, cheap meat. The hours were alright too, no early starts, every third Saturday off and if you wanted a day off you just took it and they’d send someone from another store to take your place. You couldn’t have asked for a better boss than Len, even if he did get a bit serious, and besides that there was a heap of girls working in the supermarket looking for someone with a bit of money and his own home—and most of them thought Davo was lovely. With his easygoing nature and sense of humour he never had much trouble getting one or two back to his unit for a few drinks and bit of discreet whatever. But after what he’d been through with Sue Davo swore it would be a bloody long time before he’d ever tumble into getting married again.
Yes he thought, as he ran the last of the T-bones through the saw and stacked them on a tray to be packed,
any man with ambition would take his money and start himself up in some sort of business like a milk-run, or a cleaning-run or own your own butcher shop. But what’s the point? You’re your own boss fair enough, but you work heaps longer hours, you’ve got all the worries in the world and you end up paying it all back in taxes anyway. No. As he put the tray of T-bones on the rollers, he glanced back out the window at two girls, obviously flatmates, picking carefully through the cartons of meat. This’ll do me for the time being.
After wiping the bone-dust off his hands onto his blue and white striped apron he checked his watch in the top pocket of his white coat; just on ten. ‘Hey, Len,’ he said, ‘who do you want to go to early smoko?’
The manager looked up from the veal steak he was now slicing at his own watch wrapped round his thick, powerful wrist. ‘Shit! Is it ten o’clock already. Alright you and Dennis go now—and don’t be all bloody day either.’ He glanced over at the girls. ‘Kathy, you and Krystina like to go to morning tea now?’ The girls nodded eagerly in agreement. ‘When you get back, Davo,’ added Len, ‘roll all the briskets and Dennis can pump them.’ Davo unbuckled his pouch and steel and hung it on a meat hook sitting on the rail along with his apron. He gave his hands a quick wash in the sink wiped them on a paper towel then got his bag from out of the cool room and he and the apprentice headed for the lunchroom. The two girls got cleaned up in their own washroom where the corridor met the loading dock.
On the way up the stairs Dennis asked Davo what he had for morning tea. Dennis and the others asked Davo this every day because he always brought food to work with him; generally sandwiches for smoko and a bit of stew or casserole which he’d keep in a small steamer and heat up for lunch. Even though the others often brought food themselves it struck them as a bit strange for a bachelor and they’d kid him about being an old sheila and mean.
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