The Godson (54 page)

There was no mistaking his cheery voice over the phone. ‘Hello, Les,' he beamed. ‘How are you, son?'

‘Price,' answered Les. ‘I'm good. How's yourself?'

‘Terrific. Sorry I haven't spoken to you since you got back. But I've been up here with the missus running around buying horses. I tried to call you yesterday, but you must have been out.'

‘Yeah, I was with Billy. We took Kileen's car back.'

Price laughed. ‘What did the pisspot say? Eddie said the car was full of bullet holes.'

‘He didn't say all that much,' replied Les. ‘But he looked like the portrait of Dorian Gray as we were leaving.'

‘Good. That'll teach him to come up to the club and drink all my free piss.' Price's voice changed. ‘Listen Les, seriously.
I'm sorry about what happened up there. Eddie told me what came down. It wasn't supposed to turn out like that.'

‘Yeah, well, maybe it wouldn't have if Peregrine hadn't sent his girlfriend a card telling her where we were.'

‘Yeah, the young flip. You'd think he'd have more brains.'

‘Anyway it's all history now, Price.'

‘Yeah. But I still don't like my boys getting shot at. O'Malley's pretty rapt in what you did too, Les.'

‘I was talking to him on a car-phone. He sounds like a good bloke.'

‘He's a gem. And if he says he'll do you a favour he will.'

‘Whatever. But I'm not worried about it.'

‘So have you got any of that five grand left?'

‘Yeah. A fair bit.'

‘Well, keep that. Danny's up the club with Billy so have a few more days off. Shout yourself a few days up at Surfers or something. Get out of the bloody cold for a while.'

‘Jesus, I wouldn't even mind doing that. Thanks, Price.'

They chatted on for a while longer then Les hung up, telling Price if he didn't see him over the weekend he'd see him up the club next week.

Norton looked at the phone for a moment and a thought struck him. I know who I'll ring up. He got Alison's phone number from his bedroom and dialled Brisbane. Alison wasn't home, but a rather suspicious sounding mother was. Les left his phone number and a message for her to ring reverse charges if she wanted. Thank you. When he hung up Norton had a feeling he wouldn't be seeing much more of young Alison. Oh well, you win some, you lose some. But what a top little babe. And a ton of fun. So what'll I do now? It's a prick of a day outside. But I've got around three grand to spend. I know, I'll shout myself a new pair of jeans and a track-suit, and maybe a new pair of running shoes. Les drove up to Bondi Junction and did just that, then sat around in the Plaza drinking hot soup and having a perv. By the time he got home around five with a couple of videos and two slices of rump steak he found Warren home early from the advertising agency.

‘So, how are you feeling now, Woz?' he asked when he spotted him sitting in the kitchen.

Warren's eyes said it all for him. ‘If I was a greyhound, they'd have me put down. I feel like something that's been condemned by the Board of Health.'

‘You had anything to eat?'

‘I had a drover's breakfast when I got to work. A cigarette and a walk around.'

‘I thought you'd given 'em up?'

‘I did. Now my mouth tastes like the grease-trap at Homebush Abbatoirs.'

‘Well I got some steaks and a couple of videos.'

‘I could eat a steak. What are the videos?'

‘Chuck Norris and Chevy Chase.'

‘Ohh shit!' Warren shook his head. ‘Anyway, it won't worry me. I reckon I'll be in bed by ten. I'm saving myself for the Mojo turn tomorrow night.'

‘What time does it start?'

‘Four o'clock. It's upstairs in the pub opposite.'

Les cooked tea then after the news they settled down to a quiet night watching videos. Warren felt better after a decent feed and even managed to get down two bottles of beer, which immediately put a head on everything he'd drank the night before. He stayed up to watch Chuck Norris spinning heel kick his way through a multitude of baddies in Los Angeles, then blast whoever were left over to pieces with an assortment of automatic weapons before finishing up with the available piece of crumpet. However Chevy Chase po-facing and one-lining his way around Mexico didn't turn him on all that much and he went to bed, saying Norton's taste in videos was pretty much like his taste in suits. To which Norton replied he didn't have a suit. To which Warren replied that's exactly what he meant. Norton was left to ponder on this as he watched the last of the video and found himself nodding off towards the end. He was glad when it finished so he could get to bed himself.

F
RIDAY MORNING WAS
cold and sunny with a brisk westerly blowing. Les was up before Warren and missed him when he came back from training, opting for a few laps of Bondi and a hit on the bag in North Bondi Surf Club. The early morning chill had kept it down to the regulars. Les recognised a few familiar faces who said hello Les, haven't seen you for a while, how have you been? To which Les replied good. Which was true. Because he'd worked off the weight he'd put on at Cedar Glen, plus a little extra.

After a shower and reading another newspaper over breakfast plus catching up on the news on TV the last couple of nights, the realisation that he was definitely back in the big city well
and truly dawned on Norton. The nation was in the very best of hands — there were around fifteen thousand homeless kids sleeping on the streets and National Parks and Wildlife needed three million dollars to save the koalas from extinction. So the government spent five million dollars on a report to expunge the English language of such words as ‘manpower', ‘mannerism', ‘manoeuvre' etc so any feminists working on the government payroll wouldn't be offended. Which should be very comforting to the next homeless kid sleeping near a manhole cover, thought Les, to know that he is now sleeping next to a personhole cover. The hole in the ozone layer was increasing, along with the greenhouse effect, so the government in its wisdom was going to let the Japanese woodchip all the forests on the South Coast for the next fifteen years. What they didn't destroy, a Canadian mob would — with a billion dollar woodchip plant in Tasmania right beneath the hole in the ozone layer, guaranteed to pollute the surrounding ocean as it turned all the trees into woodchips to be sold back to Australia as cardboard cartons so we could increase out national debt. Some traitor suggested we try recycling our paper. But this was poo-poohed because it wouldn't be cost effective and it was easier to chop down all the trees. Meanwhile the French were doing their bit for the environment by exploding more atomic bombs in the Pacific and blowing up all the bird colonies in Antarctica to build airfields. And because some greenies protested about this outside the consulate, various money-hungry radio broad-casters labelled them loonies, lefties and ratbags. Yes, it's certainly a great world thought Les, reflecting back to those poor simple hippies in the country trying to protect what was left of mother nature. I think I know who the ratbags are.

The state of the nation and the world in general weren't the only things that disturbed Norton that morning. A very strange letter arrived as he was out the front tinkering with his old Ford just before lunchtime. As soon as Les saw the envelope he knew it spelled trouble. Printed on the back was Tweed Valley Stock And Station Agents And Auctioneers. Oh-oh, thought Les — here it is. Well, it had to come sooner or later. Now I reckon I can expect a visit from the wallopers.

Norton frowned darkly as he looked at the envelope and tried to figure out the best thing to do. He could send it back address unknown, or no longer at this address. No, that wouldn't work. They'd get a summons to me sooner or later. No, bugger it, I'm going to have to face this bloody thing. Fuck it. Les opened the letter, quickly read the contents and an even darker
frown crossed his face. What the — what's this fuckin' Rabinski trying to pull. Benny might be kosher, but this bloody letter ain't. There's something very wrong here. Les decided to read the letter again inside, over a cup of coffee. He went into the kitchen, made some instant and read the letter again. Slowly.

 

Dear Mr Norton,

Please find enclosed a cheque for $500 for your bond money. You failed to collect it when you returned the keys to Cedar Glen to our office. The office would also like to thank you for introducing us to Sir Peregrine Normanhurst. To show our appreciation we have enclosed a cheque made out to you for an additional $250. If you are ever in the Tweed Valley area again feel free to visit our office anytime.

 

Yours sincerely

Benjamin M. Rabinski

 

Norton sipped his coffee and his eyes narrowed as he slowly nodded his head. Yeah, good try Benny, you miserable little prick. I cash these cheques and that automatically proves I was at Cedar Glen for two weeks. Then bingo! The nice summons. Call into our office Mr Norton — and in two minutes every copper in Murwillumbah would be in there. No, fuck it, I'll give Cameron a ring on Monday and take these up to him. If my ace lawyer Carnivore T. Funnelwebb, can't figure this out, no one can. Les put the envelope on his dressing table, finished his coffee then went back to tinkering with his car. It was a funny one though, especially the cheque for the extra two-fifty. And how did they find out about Peregrine? He never introduced him to them. Norton was still pondering a little on this when he caught a cab to the Mojo party at four-thirty wearing his new jeans, long-sleeved checked shirt and black leather jacket.

Warren could have been namedropping a little or mishandling the truth about the Mojo party. Mojo weren't actually throwing it. They were there, but the party was being thrown by a guy called Harry Madigan who ran an advertising and music agency called Keen As A Bean. Les had got to know Harry through various parties Warren had taken him to and he used to come up to the game now and again for a flutter at the tables or on the roulette wheel. Harry wrote jingles and did a lot of voice-overs because he had one of those husky, crackling voices that at times could make John Laws sound like Tiny Tim.
Like a lot of blokes in their late thirties, Harry's hair had seen better days and his face told of late nights in a lot of recording studios. But he had cheerful, rolling eyes and the razor-sharp wit you need to survive in the cutthroat Sydney advertising scene.

He was standing just inside the back door of the hotel talking to a couple of people when Les walked in. As soon as he saw Norton he smiled a big welcome and extended his hand.

‘Hello, Les,' he said, in his familiar deep, gravelly voice. ‘How are you, mate?'

‘Good thanks, Harry.'

‘Warren told me you were coming.'

‘Yeah. Thanks for inviting me.'

Madigan winked. ‘The party's upstairs. Just go to the bar and order what you like. There's food and all that. I'll see you up there later.'

‘Okay. Thanks, Harry.'

Norton stepped lively up the stairs into three large rooms full of comfortable lounge chairs with a small bar at one end and a piano in the middle. There were about a hundred well-dressed people in there, some dancing, most of them talking and laughing in small groups. Les recognised a few musicians and a few heads he'd seen on TV commercials. Everyone seemed to be having a good time and although the party had more or less just started they were all well into it. Warren was in the end room talking to his bosses; he caught Norton's eye and waved. Les got a bottle of Crown Lager from one of the girls behind the bar and walked over.

‘Hello, Woz,' he said. ‘How's it going?'

‘The landlord,' smiled Warren. ‘You got here.'

‘Yeah,' enthused Les. ‘It looks like a good turn.'

‘It is.' Warren nodded to his bosses. ‘You remember the boys from work?'

‘Yeah,' replied Les. ‘How's it going, fellahs?'

Warren's bosses knew Les from the Melbourne wine commercial and they shook his hand warmly and smiled; the ad had been a success so there was a good vibe there. After that it was all plain sailing — Norton was one of the chaps.

Les talked to Warren and his bosses for a while then went to the bar and kept filling up on various drinks, then roamed around in general getting pleasantly pissed. There was no shortage of drinks, no shortage of food, no shortage of anything and especially no shortage of good-looking women; and everyone who Les smiled and said hello to seemed to smile and say
hello back. One thing Les did notice as he eased his way through the crowd, ear-wigging different conversations, was the number of one-liners flying around. With all this advertising crowd it was virtually one-liners at two paces. Did you hear about the… ? How do you… ? What's the difference between…? Why did the… ? There were some rippers though and secretly he wished he'd brought a notebook with him to write most of them down.

Eventually he finished up back at the bar ordering another bourbon, about the same time as a tall willowy blonde who ordered a champagne with a dash of blended strawberries. She was quite a good sort, late twenties, straight well-groomed hair and a pretty if slightly serious face. She hadn't gone overboard with the make-up and above a thin nose was a pair of probing green eyes which seemed to be thoroughly evaluating everything as she glanced around the room. Soberly dressed in a double-breasted brown jacket and a pleated, cream skirt, she looked like she could have been the editor of some women's magazine or a TV producer. Norton tipped her to be a feminist. So what, he thought, half full of drink. They can't hang you for being polite.

‘Hello,' he said, half raising his glass. ‘How are you?'

‘Good thanks,' replied the blonde. ‘Enjoying the party?'

‘Yeah,' smiled Norton. ‘It's a donger.'

‘Who are you here with?'

Les pointed to Warren. ‘That guy over there with the fair hair in the red shirt.'