Guns 'n' Rose (10 page)

‘Where to now, Jimmy?' he said, closing the door. ‘Home?'

‘Yes. Home, James. I wouldn't mind a quick swim, then a long shower. Get the smell of that fuckin' nick off me.'

‘I understand perfectly, James. It's not real good, is it?'

‘You can say that again, Les.'

There were one or two things Norton would have liked to ask Jimmy, however he thought he might let it slide for the time being. Les hit the ignition and they drove the short distance to Price's house.

‘Righto, Jimmy. I think you can manage now.' Les dropped Jimmy's bag near the top of the stairs. ‘Where do you want to doss? I've got the room at end of the hall.'

‘There's one near the pool'll do me.'

‘All right. Well, there's coffee and food and all that in the kitchen if you want. Just help yourself. I'll be down the pool having a read if you want me.'

‘Okay, Les. I'll sort my stuff out and see you in an hour or so.'

‘Take your time, mate. There's no hurry.'

Jimmy got his bag and lugged it downstairs while Les went to his room and changed into an old pair of shorts and his thongs then got a glass of orange juice and took it into the loungeroom. Jimmy must have had the same idea as Norton when he first arrived, because by the time Les had tuned the stereo to some FM station and started staring out the window, Jimmy had left his gear and jumped straight into the pool also; except
Jimmy didn't worry about Speedos. Les watched Jimmy's not-so-white backside gliding easily through the water and thought that, as well as looking fairly fit, he didn't have a bad swimming style either. Go for your life, mate, Les smiled. You only got a week, then it's back to the puzzle. Les drifted back to his room to get his book and sunglasses. By the time he got to the pool the only sign of Jimmy was a few wet footprints and the sound of someone singing in a shower. Les settled down on a banana-lounge and started reading. He was getting into stories about the Einsatzgruppen and Babii-Yar when Jimmy strolled casually round the side. He was wearing neatly pressed, white Alberto Biani shorts with an alligator skin belt, a brown Banana Republic T-shirt and tan Mezlin loafers. With his Iridium Oakleys jammed into his eyes he looked like he'd just walked out of a spread in
GQ
magazine.

‘So how are you feeling now, Jimmy? You've certainly brushed up okay.'

‘Yes, well I'm not quite into the all-Australian, Shanghai-riding boots and stubbies look—which is obviously your particular go.' Jimmy gave Les a thin, pearly white smile as Norton self-consciously scrunched his toes in his old thongs. ‘And as to how I feel—as a matter of fact, Les, I'm hungry. What about you?'

‘Jimmy, I'm always hungry.'

‘Okay, let's do lunch.'

‘Do lunch? You don't fancy a barbecue or something? I got some grouse steaks in the fridge.'

‘I'd love to, Les. But I left my can holder back in the nick. Along with my Fatty Vautin cookbook and my thongs.'

Les folded his book. ‘Okay, lunch it is.'

‘And, Les, try and wear something a little decent, will you? The place I've got in mind is sort of—respectable.'

Wear something decent, Les. The place is respectable
. Norton's eyes narrowed and darkened slightly as he climbed out of his old shorts back in the bedroom. Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror and smiled. You started it, smartarse. You've got no one to blame but yourself. He changed into a pair of Levi shorts, a blue Nautica T-shirt and black, lace-up Road Mocs and gave his hair a quick comb. Jimmy was waiting in the kitchen drinking a glass of orange juice like the French Consul sipping Beaujolais. He gave Les a quick once-up-and-down, followed by a grudging nod of approval.

‘So where are we doing lunch, James?'

‘A place called Waves. Opposite the carpark next to Terrigal Surf Club.'

‘Okay. Let's go.'

Jimmy rinsed his glass clean and they walked out to the car. After Les put on his seat belt and started the motor he turned to Jimmy.

‘Just one thing, Jimmy, before we go.'

‘Yes, Les.'

‘If this place is so—respectable, how come they let you in there?'

Jimmy didn't blink. ‘Because I generally take a moron redneck with me, get the management to rob him blind on the bill, then make sure he leaves a substantial tip.'

Norton didn't blink either. ‘Fair enough.'

The restaurant was above a surf shop and an art gallery. Les found a parking spot in the carpark opposite and they walked back across the street. A blue awning with ‘Waves' written across it in white sat above a short passageway leading to a set of stairs that angled up to a blue railing. Les stepped in and was almost on the front step when he heard Jimmy call out.

‘Where are you going?'

Jimmy was standing on the footpath with his arms folded. ‘In here,' replied Norton. ‘This is it, ain't it?'

‘What are you going to drink with your meal? Coca-Cola? Les, please. Some wine, surely?'

‘Fair enough.' Norton rejoined Jimmy and they started walking towards the other shops. ‘Hey, Jimmy, if you're going to get a flagon of cheap Moselle, shouldn't we be going to that pub over near the bridge? I doubt if that bottle shop'd have any goonis.'

‘Droll, Les. Verrry droll.'

The woman was behind the counter puffing on a cigarette while she talked to a customer. Jimmy walked across to the white wines, had a quick peruse, then picked out a bottle and placed it on the counter.

‘Have you got a bottle of this slightly chilled, Sheri,' he asked.

The woman looked at the bottle and put down her cigarette. ‘Sure have, Jimmy.' She took the bottle and replaced it with one from a small chiller near the front wall. ‘By the time you get to the restaurant that should be about perfect.'

Norton looked at the label then at Jimmy. ‘Mount Mary Vineyard. Lilyvale Chardonnay. Is that any good?' Jimmy looked at the woman. The woman
looked at Jimmy. Then they both looked at Les. Les looked at the price. ‘Christ! It'd want to be.' Norton knew Jimmy had absolutely no intention of paying, but he was still a bit slow getting the money out of his pocket.

‘Well,' said Jimmy, ‘don't stand there like a stale bottle of piss, Charlie Brown. Pay the woman.'

A cosy indoor dining room faced you as you walked into Waves with a large outdoor dining area overlooking the beach on your right. A bushy-haired woman wearing jeans and a crisp, white shirt was checking something at a small counter near the door. She looked up and smiled happily as they walked in.

‘Hello, Jimmy,' she said. ‘How are you?'

‘Pretty good, Dyane,' answered Jimmy. ‘Nice to see you again.'

‘You too, Jimmy. Always.'

Jimmy handed her the bottle of wine. ‘Have you got a nice table on the—?'

‘For you, Jimmy, always. Always.'

Dyane led them out to a bright, spacious, terracottatiled balcony edged with white brick and dotted with customers eating off white tables shaded by blue umbrellas. Two extensive greenboard menus sat either side of the balcony above several ceramic pots full of parlour palms and indoor plants. She settled them at a table right at the edge and Les could see all the way to Wamberal and across to the boats in the Haven. A pleasant breeze drifted over the tables and you were far enough above the traffic to watch it but miss the noise and any car fumes. Without ignoring Les, Dyane had a few more words with Jimmy then came back with his
wine in an ice bucket and two menus. She poured them a little over half a glass each, smiled again, then went over to have a word with a waitress and some customers at another table.

‘Well, cheers, Les,' said Jimmy.

‘Yeah, same to you, mate,' replied Norton.

The chardonnay was nice. But, unfortunately, Les had to admit wine was just wine to him. He could tell good from bad, red from white, then after that it was just all plonk. Price and George were wine buffs to the point of being Nazis and spent a fortune on the stuff at times. Les would listen to them waffling away about vintages and bouquets and whatever with rich punters back at the club and it bored the tits off him. He'd tried to appreciate fine wines on several occasions but to no avail. Even French champagne gave him indigestion. Try as he might, Norton was a wine philistine and preferred a glass of cold mineral water with a meal any time; especially sitting out in the sun during the middle of the day.

‘So, what do you think?' asked Jimmy, swirling his glass gently like a typical wine-nazi-cum-connoisseur.

‘Yeah, not bad,' conceded Norton. ‘Could be a bit colder, though.' Les got some ice, dropped it in his glass, swirled it around vigorously with his fingers, then licked them. ‘Yeah, that's better.'

Jimmy shook his head in disgust. ‘I don't believe anybody can be that crass. Why don't you put some cordial in with it?'

‘Not a bad idea,' agreed Les. ‘They got any Lime Green Kooler in here? That would complement this wonderfully.'

Dyane came back with her notepad. Jimmy ordered a dozen Oysters Natural and Pan-Fried Cajun Coral Perch Fillets with sour cream. Les thought he might have the same only with a Malaysian Prawn Laksa for an entree, plus garlic bread, a side salad for two and a large glass of mineral water. When Dyane left them, Jimmy sipped his wine, crossed his legs and sat back. Les took a couple of sips of wine, watching Jimmy as he drank. He also watched the women at the other tables. Young and old, they were all pitching furtive glances at Jimmy; two young blondes to Norton's left were almost drooling. Whether Jimmy was aware of this or not, Les couldn't tell because of the sunglasses. But he was kicked back, looking around him and no doubt revelling in the more than pleasant surroundings. Though going from a cell to a first-class restaurant in barely a few hours, there would be something wrong with you if you didn't preen a little. Norton's mineral water arrived and he took a mouthful.

‘Well, Jimmy. What do you reckon? I could think of worse places to be.'

‘Yeah.' Jimmy started singing with a bit of a punk British accent. ‘Like down in a sewer. Or on the end of a skewer.'

‘The Stranglers. “Rattus Norvegicus”.'

‘Hey, Les, you know your music.'

‘Warren—the bloke I live with—he's got the CD.' Les took another mouthful of mineral water. ‘You didn't seem to mind some of the stuff I had playing in the car.'

‘Country and Western. Are you kidding?' Jimmy started to laugh. ‘Rural-influenced contemporary music. In fact, I've got a surprise for you later, Les.'

‘You have?'

‘Yep. We're going out for a couple of hours at six o'clock.'

‘We are? Where?'

‘Over to Avoca. I reckon you'll love it. So don't get pissed.'

Norton shrugged and nodded to the ice bucket. ‘Not on that shit, I won't.'

The entrees arrived. Jimmy's oysters were creamy, plump and fresh that day, and he ate them like a gentleman. Norton's laksa was rich, spicy, full of succulent prawns and noodles with seasoned, fried shallots on top and, despite a finger bowl, he ate it like a caveman. Then, hard as it was to believe, the cajun coral perch was as good or even better. Two fat fillets of delicious blackened fish that fell apart on a bed of shredded lettuce into the sour cream. If Norton had been a dog, he would have run out to the kitchen and started rooting the chef's leg. They slipped, slopped and slurped away, getting into the salad and garlic bread as well till there was nothing left. Les was good on the tooth. But for his size Jimmy wasn't bad either and despite a bottle of wine he didn't appear to be the slightest bit drunk.

Les raised his second glass of mineral water. ‘Well, Jimmy, I've got to hand it to you.'

‘My choice of restaurants?'

‘That. Plus you've drunk a whole bottle of wine and haven't carried on like a drunken abo.'

‘Really?'

‘Yep. You haven't picked a fight with the owner. You haven't abused any of the other customers and asked them what they're looking at. And you haven't called
me a boofheaded white cunt and told me I stole your country.'

Jimmy sniffed indifferently. ‘Why bother? You don't need me to tell you that. Besides, you're driving me around, picking up the tab—you even carry my bag for me. As far as I'm concerned, you're just a goosey big mug.' Jimmy drained the last of his wine and blinked at the look on Norton's face. ‘Les, Les, I'm sorry. You're not. You're not a mug, are you? Good Lord, why didn't you tell me?'

What could Norton say? He'd been completely hoisted with his own petard. ‘Jimmy, I reckon you could make carrot cake out of cow shit.'

‘Too right, Les. I might be temporarily bunged up at the moment, but I sure as hell ain't climbing up mug's hill on the slippery side.'

‘So what do you want to do now?'

‘I wouldn't mind going for walk. Walk the meal off. Just get out in the open for a little while.'

‘Good idea, Jimmy. Whereabouts?' Les nodded over the balcony. ‘Terrigal.'

‘Avoca. I like it down there.'

‘Okay, let's go.'

As they got to their feet Jimmy pointed to the bill. ‘Oh, and Les, don't forget a substantial tip.'

Norton grinned and patted his stomach. ‘You don't have to worry about that, Jimmy.'

With Jimmy giving directions, Les drove past the Haven and on up the hill to the North Avoca turn-off. Jimmy explained how you couldn't drive directly to South Avoca because of the lagoon in the middle, but you could get there easy enough walking along the
beach, which was what they were going to do. The road led down, then on past a cluster of shops; Les pulled up in a small carpark next to North Avoca Surf Club.

‘We may as well leave our shoes in the car,' suggested Jimmy.

‘Good thinking, 99,' said Norton, kicking his off then locking the doors.