Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas Read Free Page A

now. I get to keep an eye on some of these dogs you keep dragging in here behind my back. Make sure they’re not old crackers full of hookworm and various forms of STDs.’
    â€˜Ximena’s got a girlfriend — an aerobics instructor. She’s a good sort too.’
    â€˜I couldn’t give a fuck if she was Victoria Principal and her old man owned a brewery. I’m staying home. I’m rooted.’
    â€˜Please yourself, you miserable big prick.’
    â€˜Mr Miserable Big Prick to you, soupbones.’ Norton grinned at Warren. ‘Jesus, am I ever looking forwardto the next few months. Plenty of exercise, plenty of early nights and plenty of keeping an eye on you. There’s gonna be plenty of changes coming up at Maison Norton in the next few months. Guaranteed, old fellah.’
    Warren nodded over his coffee. ‘I can imagine. But I bet it still won’t be your underwear.’
    Wearing designer jeans, a blue striped shirt and reeking of expensive aftershave lotion Warren said goodbye and left about eight-thirty. The same time as the movie came on — Charles Bronson in
The Streetfighter
.
    This’ll do me thought Les, placing a cushion from the lounge under his head as he heard the front door close. For the next five years. Fuck the money.
    The movie ended around ten-thirty and Les was in bed not long afterwards. This time he didn’t piss all over the bathroom floor and he didn’t leave any lights on. He also slept like a log; not hearing Warren stagger in alone some time after two.
    When Les rose around seven on Monday morning, he still wasn’t one hundred per cent but, compared to Sunday’s effort, he felt like the bionic man. Sipping a mug of coffee on the back verandah it was a carbon copy of the previous day; sunny and warm with just a slight northerly wind; a good day to be out and about and do a bit of training. Norton did just that. He threw on an old pair of shorts and headed for North Bondi Surf Club.
    He had no trouble parking his car and was in a fairly good mood as he strolled down to the club, nodding to the regulars and a few old-timers who still, almost religiously came down for their early morning swim. He left his gear in the club, wrapped a sweatband round his head and, after a bit of limbering up, set off for a lazy eight laps of the beach.
    It was more than pleasant trotting along the water’s edge. Sometimes the waves would surge up round his ankles as he weaved around the other joggers or people just out having a stroll; a surfer would leave the water and head back to his car on the promenade.
    The surf crashed pleasantly against the shore and the city could have been a million miles away. It was the ideal situation for an early morning jog. It was also an ideal situation to do a bit of thinking, especially about Saturday night at the Kelly Club. This thing could go either way. Either he’d be back there in a month, or he’d be looking at a new life style. Sooner or later though, the Kelly Club was going to close: if not this year, the next — it was inevitable. The good old days — or bad old days — take your pick were coming to an end. It was like the man said in the song, ‘And the times they are a’changing’. And Price had had a better run than anyone.
    No matter what happened, Norton wouldn’t starve. He had money snookered away in bank accounts and fixed term deposits all over the place; he even had some buried. The earns that had fallen in while he was working at the Kelly Club had mounted up and it was debatable if Les had ever spent his wages the whole time he worked there. He owned the house in Cox Avenue. He’d missed out on the giant earn with Peregrine and that painting but it was comforting to know that Peregrine, although not quite all right, wasn’t dead. The army had eventually fished him out of the loch in Scotland. And not long after Les had received a letter from