Guns 'n' Rose (31 page)

‘He's gone mad,' said George.

‘Shut up. The fuckin' lot of you.'

Eddie, Price and George sat there looking at Les and looking at each other. They'd seen the big Queenslander throw the odd wobbly now and again, but this was a strange one. Best to let him run. If the worst came to the worst Eddie could shoot him in the leg. There was a knock on the door and Billy walked in. Not quite knowing what was going on, but sensing something odd was in the air, he sat down on a seat alongside Eddie and joined the others staring at Les. Les continued to jemmy the wooden crate. It creaked and groaned and the nails popped with a rasping, dry screech and it was obvious they'd been in there a long time. He jemmied some more wooden boards away till there was enough room to get his hand through; inside, the crate was packed with old wood shavings, pieces of greasy wool clippings and yellowed newspapers. Norton put the pinch bar on the desk, reached in and
pulled out the first thing he got his hand on. It was a bottle of wine.

‘Wine?'

‘Yeah. Wine,' said Price. ‘What did you think was in there, you fuckin' big hillbilly? Chocolate Surprises?'

‘I thought it was guns.'

‘Guns? Are you off your dopey bloody head?'

‘I… I'm starting to think I am.'

Les looked at the dusty bottle. It was clear, chunky in shape with a fine, elongated neck and a delicate lace pattern on the glass. The cork was sealed with wax and whatever was inside was a beautiful, rich pink. On the front was a white label with a little pink rose in the corner. Les wiped the dust off and written on the label in old, Germanic print was ‘Father Gunther-Otto Eindhoven. Avondale Muscat Rose. '38. Lot 2'.

‘Anyway, give me that.' Price snatched the bottle of wine out of Norton's hand and sat back down on the lounge, cradling it like it was a newborn baby.

Suddenly, as well as being angry and confused, Les felt lost; deflated. ‘Price,' he said, ‘would you mind telling me what's going on?'

Price looked at George for a second as if they both thought it might be best to get it over with as quickly as possible. ‘All right,' he said. ‘I'll admit we weren't quite fair dinkum with you first up.' Price's voice was calm and soothing, almost fatherly towards Les as he spoke. ‘Jimmy is a bit of a villain. A bit. But all that trouble he was in, in the nick, is true, and it wasn't his fault. So, anyway, he got in touch with me and George and said if I could get him leave for a week and sort all this Elliott out he'd do something for me. He knew I
liked to collect wine and he said he knew where this special crate of wine was from when he worked up the Hunter Valley and how he could get it. So I pulled a few strings. Shit! Did I have to pull a few strings! Spread a heap of bloody money around. And here it is.' Price gave the bottle a little kiss. ‘Jimmy was telling the truth.'

‘But why go to all that trouble?' said Les. ‘I mean, what's so special about a few bottles of plonk?'

‘It's worth about twenty-five grand a bottle,' said George. ‘Is that special enough?'

‘It's more than that,' said Price. ‘This is like having a Rembrandt. It was made by an old German monk who came out here just before the Second World War. He was about the first person to start a winery in the Hunter Valley when there was nothing up there but trees and kangaroos. He made some other wines, then he made this Avondale Rosé from some unique grapes he brought out with him from Germany. He only made four batches and a horse kicked the poor old bludger in the face. Where one case is, nobody knows. One got opened somehow and that's how the wine buffs got to know how good it is. Some bloke was hoarding another crate and it all got smashed during the Newcastle earthquake. And Uncle Price has now got the other one. I know talking about wine shits you a bit, Les, but you've delivered me the holy grail of Australian wine. Thanks, mate, I owe you another one.'

Norton shook his head. ‘I don't believe it.'

‘That's all it was, mate,' said Price. ‘Vintage wine. Very expensive vintage wine. But just vintage wine.
The bloke Jimmy stole it off stole it in the first place. So it's doubtful if he's going to do anything. And the reason I didn't say anything at first was because I thought you might have got the wrong idea and in case Jimmy might have been half full of shit. Eddie was coming up in the morning to get the crate and have a bit of lunch with you. Then you and Jimmy could continue spending all my money and having a good time in Terrigal, doing whatever it is you were doing.'

‘Didn't Jimmy tell you, you big goose?' asked George.

‘Yeah, what have you done with Jimmy anyway?' asked Price.

‘Jimmy's dead.'

‘Dead?' All four voices seemed to echo round the office at once. Price and Eddie sat up on the lounge. George's face almost hit the floor.

‘I've just been caught in that bikie massacre at Broadwater. Jimmy got shot. I nearly got shot myself.'

‘Shot? Ohh, no,' said George. ‘Don't fuckin' say that.'

‘I saw that on TV before I got here,' said Eddie. ‘It's all over the news. Were you there?' Not that Eddie needed to know when Les was telling the truth.

Neither did Billy. ‘Shit! I saw some of it, too. What happened, Les?'

‘It was a horror show,' said Les. ‘I can tell you that.'

Les gave them a quick rundown on what happened at the hotel and how they happened to be there. Jimmy pulling out the gun, the whip, picking up his bag at the massacre house, the two bikies shooting him. Getting away on the Norton, the vintage bike show. It was a bit
of a jumble and Les was letting it all hang out, but somehow the others managed to understand what he was talking about. Yet at the same time Les was talking and watching their astonished faces; in between sentences, he kept thinking about Jimmy. Jimmy had been telling the truth all along. When Les asked him what was in the box, Jimmy told him. Bottles of wine. Red wine. He just didn't elaborate at the time because he was still probably feeling uptight about getting lost and keeping the other two waiting. And like he said, it would go straight over Norton's head. Then, when Les was trying to be clever and asked Jimmy what he'd have with the wine, and Jimmy said spaghetti at the No Names, that was just Jimmy's cynical sense of humour. The No Names would be just the place you'd take a $25,000 bottle of wine to eat with a $6 plate of spaghetti on a laminex table. Although Jimmy probably would have explained it all to him when Eddie arrived, he couldn't be bothered at the time, so he had a loan of Les. Which wasn't hard for Jimmy. And Norton, in his usual, untrusting, bull-at-a-gate style of thinking, had got his bowels in a great, big, screaming knot again over nothing. There was no gun deal going down with any bikies. Jimmy took the whip to the hotel for that bloke Ian and one of his mates who might have wanted one too. Jimmy was just hell-bent on revenge with that bikie gang, and when the chance came he took it. Maybe he thought he could get away with it in all the confusion. Maybe he was speeding. Who knows what was going through his mind half the time. Bloody Jimmy. You could say what you liked about him, but he had style and he had balls. And it
was like that crazy bloke said—he could certainly arrange things if he had to. Maybe he shouldn't have belted poor silly Megan, but she was a disaster waiting to happen and in a way she was lucky she only got it off a lightweight. One thing for sure, wherever Jimmy was now, he'd be having the last laugh on Norton. Try not to look like a Queenslander, Les. Whoops. Too late, you've done it again.

‘There's heaps more happened than that up there,' said Les, ‘but honestly, I wouldn't know where to begin.'

‘Christ! That's not bad for a start,' said Eddie.

‘What about the escape from the hotel?' said Billy. ‘Indiana Jones, eat your heart out.'

‘I'll tell you what you do need, Les,' said Price. ‘A drink. In fact after that, I might even get you one myself.'

‘Not a bad idea,' said Les, feeling a lot lighter and happier, now that he'd sorted things out a bit and got things off his chest. Then Norton got that look in his eye again. He snatched the bottle of wine out of Price's hands. ‘What's this taste like?'

‘Taste like?' howled Price. ‘You don't drink that, you fuckin' hillbilly. It's a collector's item.'

‘What do you mean, you don't drink it? It's piss, ain't it?'

Before Price or anyone else had a chance to do anything, Les got a bottle opener from the bar, scraped away the wax seal and uncorked the bottle of wine with a gentle pop. He placed five whisky tumblers on Price's desk, filled them, then offered them around. Everybody took one except George.

Les raised his glass. ‘Well, here's to Jimmy.'

‘To Jimmy,' said Eddie.

‘Jimmy,' nodded Billy solemnly.

‘Yeah, bloody nephew Jimmy,' said Price, staring mournfully at the opened twenty-five thousand dollar bottle of rose sitting next to the old wooden crate on his desk.

Les watched Price for a moment, then took a sip. Whether he appreciated good wine or not, it was the best Norton had ever tasted; or any liquor for that matter. It had a sweet, gentle fragrance, was silky smooth and slid down your throat with an exquisite taste that was almost heavenly. Slightly chilled, it would have been like drinking honeyed sunshine. Even sitting in the thick whisky glass, the wine's delicate beauty seemed to capture the light in the room and sparkle like a handful of tiny, pink diamonds. Nevertheless, Norton had to show his crass ignorance.

‘Yeah, not bad,' he said, licking his lips, ‘but there's no way it's worth twenty-five grand a bottle. It's not sweet enough.' So Les got some ice cubes from the bar fridge and dropped them in his glass, then opened a small bottle of lemonade and pretended to add that as well. He stirred the ice cubes around with his index finger, licked it, then took a sip. ‘Yeah, that's better. It just needed a bit of sugar.'

Price buried his face in one hand. ‘I don't believe it,' he said, shaking his head with despair.

‘Tastes pretty good to me,' said Billy.

‘Beautiful,' agreed Eddie. ‘I've never tasted anything like it.'

‘Yeah, you're probably right,' said Les, ‘but what
would you expect from a poor, hillbilly Queenslander that hangs around with Mafia types and assassins that go round burying people.'

George was still staring silently into space, his glass of wine where Norton had left it on Price's desk, untouched. Les reached over and gave the glass a gentle clink.

‘Well, come on, George. Don't look so sad. Drink up. Have one for Jimmy. I mean, he was only your nephew. It's not as if you lost a son or something, is it—Kirk Douglas?'

George turned slowly to Norton. ‘What are you talking about, Les?'

Norton shook his head. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all, dancing man. Nothing at all.'