Guns 'n' Rose (5 page)

Well, there you go, Les smiled to himself. Who says Australia is losing its cultural identity? That man just raised it to new heights with barely a few words from an ancient dialect. Let's hope he lives long enough to pass it on down to the young ones. Norton watched absently as a couple of punters came up and bought some ‘odogzngoke', then he crossed over to the bottle shop.

The bottle shop was clean, modern and bright with a yellow paper parrot hanging from the ceiling and almost the best selection of booze Les had ever seen. Coolers brimming with designer and local beers, shelves groaning with exotic spirits and a wine selection that would have sent Len Evans into hog heaven. A tall man in a Grolsch T-shirt was behind the counter
adding up something on a calculator. He looked up as a woman in shorts with thick, dark hair going grey burst through the door covered in sweat from a power walk. She said something, then disappeared out the back, leaving a dotted trail of sweat on the polished wooden floor while the man went back to his calculator. Les perused the selection and bought a dozen mixed beers, three bottles of Bacardi and two bottles of flavoured Liudka vodka—strawberry and rockmelon—which he placed straight in the car. A small supermarket was almost next door; Les hit that and came out with milk, bread, butter and whatever which he placed in the car also. There was a butcher shop in the main drag. But Norton thought he might cheek out the one round the corner as it was next to the fruit shop.

It was one of those small, quality shops with a window display of choice cuts of meat that made your mouth water just looking at them. There was no one inside the shop except for a tall, brown-haired butcher nattering happily away to his shorter, dark-haired workmate while they trimmed stuff on the block. They were even happier when Les walked in with a roll of notes and happier again when he walked out with an armful of steaks, chops, bacon and sausages.

The fruit shop next door was another eye opener and, to Norton, shopping at Terrigal just seemed to get better and better. The roomy store was chock full of fruit and vegetables of every size, shape and variety. Salad mixes, Roma tomatoes, kumeras, papayas, all kinds of grapes and everything as fresh as it comes. Plus bottles of balsamic vinegar, virgin olive oil, jars of crushed
garlic and ginger; you name it, they had it. But best of all was a machine they rolled fresh, local oranges into and out came sparkling fresh orange juice. There were a couple of young blokes out the back packing trays near a ghetto-blaster tuned to 2JJJ. An attractive woman in white jeans with a lovely smile and dark, Spanishlooking eyes served Les, wishing him a happy day as he walked out with a carton of fruit and vegetables and three two-litre containers of fresh orange juice. Les put all this in the car, then looked at his watch. The sun was well over the yardarm, so he thought he might check out the hotel and have a cool one.

Les missed it before, but as he walked up the steps into the beer garden he noticed a sign strung above, white on black, saying
CLUB ALGIERS OVER-30S DISCO. FRIDAY NIGHT, QUAY WEST DISCO
. An over-30s disco, Norton smiled to himself. That could be all right. And I can just squeeze in there. I might come down and have a look. There were a few people scattered around the beer garden; Les strolled through the chairs and tables into the bar which was next to the food area. It had more chairs and tables, a jukebox, Sky TV near an open fireplace and another area to the right full of card machines. He ordered a schooner of New and, being a mug tourist, made a few enquiries from a tall, young barman in black. Yes, Club Algiers was on in the disco on Fridays and it wasn't a bad night; lots of people. The disco was also open tonight and this would be the last Wednesday of the summer season. There was another bar upstairs—The Baron Riley. It was a piano bar and named after a ship that sank off Terrigal in 1860, and sold the best cocktails on the Central Coast.
Les thanked the barman then walked outside and drank his schooner at a table under the vines overlooking the ocean.

The sea breeze had picked up slightly, flicking even more white caps across the blue of the ocean, but it was still a treat sitting there ‘far from the madding crowd' in Bondi. The south end of Terrigal might have been a bit knocked around from the storm, however there was still a long, beautiful expanse of golden sand running all the way to Wamberal Lagoon and Forrester's Beach beyond and the surrounding trees made the low, mountain range in from the sea a carpet of deep, mist-covered green. Les could have sat there and had another five schooners easily; it was peaceful, relaxed and the sound of the waves softly and rhythmically washing over the sand and rocks below was almost hypnotic. But all the food in the car, especially the steaks, was calling and Norton's mouth was watering worse than his stomach was rumbling. He drained his schooner to the last drop of froth and this time drove home via the church on the corner.

It took Les roughly an hour to stow away all the food and booze, organise some more ice and work out the microwave oven, along with everything else in the kitchen, sip a Eumundi and feed himself. He made a rocket salad with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, baked half a kumera smothered with cottage cheese and herb dressing and grilled two of the choicest, boneless sirloins and two sausages which he washed down with fresh orange juice, bread rolls and a small plunger of coffee while he read the paper. The solid feed didn't slow Les down; if anything it seemed to liven him up.
I don't know whether it was that orange juice or the air up here, he mused as he finished the paper, but I feel like I could go ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Well, five anyway. After burping and farting around while he cleaned up the mess, Norton now decided it was time for drinky-poohs at Price's.

Cooking a meal wasn't much trouble, and this was easier again by ten. He found a large, high-ball glass, half filled it with ice, added a liberal splash of Bacardi, a moderately liberal splash of strawberry vodka and topped it up with fresh orange juice. The first mouthful nearly sent shivers up Norton's spine. Oh yes, oh yes indeed. He rummaged through his tapes, dropped one into the stereo and settled back on the lounge. Lee Kemaghan slipped into ‘Skinny Dippin' ', Les gargled some more Bacardi, vodka and OJ and started to wonder if it got any better than this.

After about ten drinks Les lost count. He was getting nice and drunk. But not bloated or mindless; just in a roaring good mood. He'd switched the outside lights on and decided if he did start to get his wobbly boot on a bit, he could simply take his drink down to the pool, dive in and freshen up again. It was a mild, still night outside with plenty of stars around and things were more than pleasant hanging around by the pool. The only trouble was that about a hundred mosquitoes had the same idea too. I know what I'll be getting tomorrow, grimaced Norton, as he squashed one about the same size as a Cape Barren goose that settled on his forearm. About ten gallons of Aeroguard and a dozen stainless steel fly swats. He went inside for the last time and left the mozzies to it.

Les kept drinking, one cassette went into another and before he realised it the night wasn't getting any younger. But for some reason Les didn't feel at all like going to bed or watching TV. He felt like kicking on. Then he suddenly thought of something the barman at the resort had said to him. Tonight was the last time the disco was open on Wednesday and there was another bar upstairs which sold grouse cocktails. Ooh! What's that you say, Shintaro? Les smiled boozily at his reflection in one of the windows. Disco. Cocktails. It's only about a ten-minute walk down the road. Why not go and have a look? Les finished his drink, made another and drank that while he showered, shaved, shampooed and conditioned and hit himself with a bit of deodorant and a dab or two of Calvin Klein's Obsession. Whistling happily he climbed into the same jeans he wore earlier, his brown grunge boots and a two-tone brown, collarless shirt, gave himself a last detail and started walking down to the hotel.

There were plenty of trees and streetlights, but no footpaths. However, the walk down was virtually turn right a couple of hundred metres up from Price's house, turn left, then right again; except the last turn right went down a hill that would challenge a mountain goat. It was shorter than the other road that went past the North Avoca turn-off and Les had zoomed up it earlier in the Berlina. But coming back later with a further gutful of booze wouldn't be a great deal of fun if there were no taxis around. Ahh, who gives a stuff? thought Les. The exercise'll work some of the piss out of me and how good's this fresh air, and what about the view from up here? Ambling down the hill, Les could
see the lights of the hotel and parts of Terrigal village, lights from the houses all along Wamberal Beach, the vast, inky expanse of the ocean, the forested darkness of the surrounding hills and the steep, rugged headlands around Forrester's Beach further along the coast. The sky was still full of stars, there was hardly any traffic and the breeze coming in from the ocean was sweet and clean. A dog gave a couple of barks from some house as Norton proceeded down the hill. He passed a grove of trees on his left, the church, some shops and a hardware store that was closing down on his right and next thing Terrigal Pines Resort loomed up in front of him. Will I have a look in the beer garden? mused Les. No, bugger it. Straight up to this Baron Riley Bar for a cocktail. Like he still had the momentum of the hill behind him, Les angled right at the hardware store, zoomed directly across the road from the post office, past the flowerbeds and pine trees around the driveway, straight through the revolving door into the foyer.

Inside was all bright and roomy with a high ceiling, plush leather lounges, Chinese motifs on the wall and various other prints and paintings. A bank of lifts sat next to the revolving door and across the foyer a wide set of green carpeted stairs half spiralled to the next floor. Les took the stairs and came out near some marble columns and two restaurants. Between them a pair of high, wooden, inlaid-glass doors opened to the Baron Riley Bar; Les walked straight in again. It, too, was bright with high ceilings, polished wooden floors and more thick columns as you entered surrounded by indoor palms. Round tables with wicker chairs
separated the bar on your left and a piano on the right with another restaurant glassed off below that. Another lounge squared off with a wood-topped green railing, full of comfortable sofas and small tables with a bookcase and paintings on the walls was set above the piano in front of a passageway with a long, wooden table and prints of old sailing ships on the wall that ran along to another lounge area at the back. The whole place was very elegant and swish and built to take advantage of the beautiful ocean view outside and more than likely boomed on the weekends and the tourist season. Tonight, however, there was about a dozen or so people in there counting Les, the piano player and the three girls in dark green trousers and red paisley vests working the bar. Oh well, thought Norton, it's only a Wednesday night. And there might be some punters in the disco. Right now, after that back-breaking walk down, I'm in dire need of a cocktail. The bar was in three sections. One faced the piano, another the door and the other the swimming pool outside shining in the moonlight. Les chose a bar stool facing the doorway and picked up the cocktail list. A minute or two later a young girl with neat, dark hair and a pretty, almost pixie kind of face came over.

‘Yes, sir. What can I get you?' she smiled.

Norton perused the cocktail list again then placed it on the bar. ‘Yeah, I'll have a Chocolate Surprise, please.'

‘Certainly, sir.'

The girl shuffled around behind the bar, a blender whirled and before he knew it, Norton had what looked like a chocolate milkshake spliced with strawberries sitting in front of him, only with a lot more kick. After
paying the girl, Les took another mouthful and checked out the punters. There was a skinny girl in a white shirt and black vest seated round the corner who looked like kd lang, a couple two stools up staring into each other's eyes while they smoked their heads off, one or two more couples and half-a-dozen mixed shapes and sizes at a table near the piano player who could have been his friends. The piano player had thick brown hair over a salt-and-pepper beard and was crooning old Cole Porter and Ira Gershwin classics in a white tuxedo. He had a good voice and was an excellent pianist, but every now and again he'd slip in his own version of the lyrics. At the moment he was singing ‘Don't Get Around Much Any More', only it was coming out:

 

‘Bonked my girlfriend last night

Shot all over the floor

Cleaned it up with my toothbrush

Don't clean my teeth much any more.'

It went over kd lang's and the couple's heads. But the mixed shapes lapped it up, along with the staff and Norton. That finished, then it was ‘These Foolish Things'.

 

‘Two shades of lipstick on an old French letter

A case of syphilis that just won't get better

And when I piss it stings

These foolish things

Remind me of you.'

Norton chortled away and finished his milkshake. It was lovely and tasty, but all the cream and liqueurs made you thirsty. He caught the same girl's eye and she came over.

Les looked at her for a moment and thought; why not? I'm just a tourist in town. ‘I'll have a bottle of Corona and a stinger, thanks.'

‘Certainly, sir. Lime in the Corona?'

‘Yes, please.'

Norton hoofed the stinger down in two belts followed by a third of the Corona. Bloody hell, he grimaced, when his eyes stopped spinning and the beer washed away the taste of creme de menthe. No wonder bloody Mitzi date-raped me back in Hawaii. She had about fifty of those rotten things. He took another sip of beer and decided to have a look out the back; there wasn't much chance of him losing his stool.

It was more comfortable lounges and colonial furniture. There was a large fireplace, a bookcase, more paintings on the walls and long high windows overlooking the beer garden and the ocean. There weren't many people in the beer garden and only about eight in the lounge counting Les; four young girls and over to his right, two po-faced women about fifty were talking to a dark-haired girl facing them, who was wearing a denim jacket. Les couldn't see her face, but for some reason the hair looked familiar. He stood there for a minute or two sipping his beer and while he checked out one of the paintings he seemed to get this feeling of eyes watching him from a reflection in a window. Well, this is all very nice, but I want some ak-shun-Iwanna-live. Norton finished his beer, placed the bottle
on the nearest table and left down the stairs, the same way he came in.