Maximum Security, page 21
The waitress pointed to a cutting out of the Sunday Telegraph that the owner had pinned on the wall behind them. With all the other media rattle that had happened the day before, Les had completely forgotten about it.
‘Hey boys,’ he said. ‘Looks like we got our picture in the paper.’
There was a reasonable photo of the team plus Billy and Les all stuffing themselves with food, and a bit of a blurb about them. There was also a photo of the Sydney Sea Snakes looking big and mean in their snake outfits and a bigger blurb about them.
‘Jesus! They are big bastards, aren’t they?’ said Warren.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Les. ‘But you know the old saying, Woz?’
‘What’s that?’
‘The bigger they are, the quicker they sink.’
‘Hey, can you stop at a paper shop later,’ said Rodney. ‘So we can get a copy?’
‘Sure,’ replied Les. ‘I’ll get you one each.’
This time Warren went for the eggs benedict; Les chose a Z omelette and a Bronte Lagoon, plus coffee and toast. Again the boys ordered just about everything on the menu, along with seven serves of French toast with banana and ice-cream. Again the food was delicious and despite the bit of drama the boys were all keeping from Warren, the grand final breakfast went down a treat. Warren took some more photos and tried to ring Debbie on his mobile. A couple of little kids came up and asked the boys for their autographs. The boys were only too happy to oblige, then sat back feeling like seven rock stars. Before long they were down to coffees and a pile of dirty plates. Warren looked around the table and raised his caffe latte.
‘Well I’d like to propose a toast,’ he said.
‘I’ll be in that,’ said Les.
‘To the mighty Mud Crabs. Here’s to them winning the grand final.’
‘My bloody oath,’ agreed Les, clinking Warren’s glass along with whatever the boys were all drinking. ‘To the mighty Mud Crabs. Oogie, oogie, oogie. Do the Mud Crab fuckin’ boogie.’
‘Hear hear,’ said Warren.
‘Thanks Les.’
‘Yeah. Thanks heaps.’
‘You too, Warren.’
‘Yeah. Thanks Woz.’
‘Unreal Les. Thanks Warren.’
Les waited till the boys put their drinks down then looked evenly around the table. ‘Listen fellahs,’ he said. ‘I’m not your coach and I know fuck all about Extreme Polo, but I reckon you should try this in the big game — and you’re talking to a man who’s played in a grand final, with the Dirranbandi Devils under-fifteens.’
‘Wow! Heavy dude,’ said Warren.
Les tried to be as sincere as he could without giving away what he knew. ‘I reckon in the first two thirds you should concentrate on defence. One of you hang back with the goalie, even if it means leaving yourself a man short at times up front. Score if you get the chance by all means, but concentrate on defence. Then, if it all goes to plan and there’s only a few points difference in the final third — go for it! Attack like mad and give it everything you’ve got.’
There was silence round the table for a moment until Warren spoke. ‘And what’s your theory behind this genius game plan, Les Norton super coach?’
Les ran a finger round the top of his coffee cup. ‘I saw the Sea Snakes on TV. They’re big blokes alright. But I got a feeling they’re going to get tired in the last third and feel like a quick breather. But because of the reserve player rule they can’t. And it might just stuff them up. And if, if by some lucky chance one of them had to go off tired, or hurt, you might just finish up a man in front during the final third.’ Les ran his eyes round the table. ‘They’re just my thoughts boys. That’s all.’
There was another silence for a second or two then Rinh nodded in agreement. ‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea,’ he said. ‘We’ll keep it in mind.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Clarence.
‘Makes a lot of sense,’ said Garrick.
Felix’s eyes seemed to light up. ‘Shit! We’re the fastest team in the comp. And we know we’re the fittest. We can do that alright.’ He looked about him to a chorus of agreement around the table.
‘Well, there you are,’ gestured Les. ‘Why not try it?’
It would have been nice to stay there a little longer sipping coffee or whatever. But the boys had to get their gear packed and Les had to get home himself and, just to be on the safe side, get rid of Warren before he stumbled across the Mud Crabettes. They finished the last of what they were drinking and Les paid the bill. Warren made out he was having a mild heart attack when he saw Les produce the readies, then started making choking sounds when he saw Les slip the kiwi waitress a rock lobster. They bundled back into the team bus and headed for Coogee; stopping once outside a fruit shop in McPherson Street to get several copies of the Sunday Telegraph. Next thing Les slewed the bus once more alongside Coogee Oval. Warren took a last team photo outside the garage and shook hands with his idols, wishing them all the best again and telling them he and his girlfriend would be barracking for them on TV; then he climbed behind the wheel of the Celica.
‘Alright, fellas. I’ll see you back here in about an hour,’ said Les, getting in the other side.
‘See you then, Les.’ Rinh opened the garage door and they all went inside.
‘Shit! I wonder where Debbie is?’ said Warren, starting the engine. ‘She’ll be filthy not meeting the boys before they leave.’
‘Yeah. I imagine she will be,’ agreed Les.
‘Maybe I should go up and get her while I’m here?’
‘How about running me home first, mate? I got to get our heroes to the grand final on time.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’
Warren reversed back down the driveway then turned towards Bondi, doing his best to avoid the Sunday gridlock by cutting back down behind the Royal Hotel across Edward Street. When he got to Chez Norton he didn’t bother going inside, opting instead to go straight over to Debbie’s unit at Kensington and see if he could find her.
‘I’ll see you tonight when you get back from Homebush,’ said Warren. ‘Good luck at the grand final.’
‘Thanks Woz,’ replied Les, closing the car door. ‘Say hello to Zanna for me.’
‘I will.’
Warren zoomed off towards Randwick and Les went inside. There was nothing on the answering service although it appeared someone had rung without leaving a message. Funny there’s no word from Nizegy, mused Les, taking a quick glance at his watch. Still, between organising this and his betting scam, I imagine he’d be flat out. I’ll see him at the grand final and Rinh knows what to do and where to go. Now what will I wear to the grand final? This tracksuit’s starting to hum just a little. Les decided to schmick up for the occasion. He changed into a pair of clean jeans, tan Colorados, a cream, single-breasted jacket and a light blue shirt, topping it all off with a genuine 1940, maroon design tie he bought for a dollar at an op-shop. Standing in front of his mirror he looked like a crooked cop in a Mexican soap opera. While he was in his bedroom Les thought it might be an idea if he got out a large overnight bag and put the same tracksuit in it, plus his trainers, socks, a towel and everything else he felt he’d need because he had a feeling that whether the Mud Crabs won or not there was a good chance he’d finish up in the pool. He had a last look around, a think for a moment or two then picked up his keys, went outside and got behind the wheel of the mighty Datty.
Warren’s right, thought Les, as the Datty whined and gasped its way up Denham Street towards the Royal Hotel. I definitely have to get another car. As well as a maid, the two hundred grand should get me a nice car too. A brand new Judasmobile. With a personalised numberplate. DROPKICK 1. Les was still wondering what sort of car he should buy when he pulled up in front of the garage.
The boys were seated, scattered around the bunks; the girls were seated near them, with a couple at the kitchen table wearing the same bomber jackets and jeans only they’d swapped their boots for trainers. The boys had their bags packed near the door, the girls had a pile of bulky, overnight bags, a rolled-up Rainbow Serpent flag, plus a rack of what looked like colourful suits and dresses in protective wrappers. Up close the girls were a solid, homely-looking lot, with no make-up and thick, brown hair cut in an old rock’n’roll style like Gene Vincent or Eddie Cochran. From a short distance they could easily have passed for men, but looking at them Les felt certain they weren’t lesbians. Just hard, maybe a bit old-fashioned, country girls.
Angie was leaning against the fridge nonchalantly chewing on an apple. ‘Hello Les,’ she said. ‘Nice to see you again. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, Angie,’ replied Les, easily. ‘How’s yourself?’
‘Good.’ She turned to the Crabettes. ‘Girls, this is Les. The fellah I was telling you about.’
The girls all smiled up at Les. Les smiled back and gave them a quick once over. ‘Hello ladies,’ he said, with pleasant sarcasm. ‘Lovely to meet you. There’s no need to tell me all your names. I think at this stage of the game, the less I know about you the better.’ He turned to Angie. ‘So it looks like you and the warriors are on the run from the local cops, Angie.’
Angie tossed her apple core in the bin. ‘Yeah. I guess it looks that way, Les.’
‘You don’t blame them. That wasn’t a bad serve you gave those blokes. Do you think you might’ve gone just a bit overboard?’
‘Hey, you needn’t talk,’ said Angie.
‘Yeah. But I was on my own fighting for survival. Not the other way round.’
‘Hey, we’re just a team of poor defenceless women,’ said one of the girls on the bunks.
‘Ohh yeah,’ said Les. ‘So is a pack of tiger sharks.’
‘Ahh, fuck that prick in the blue shirt,’ said Angie, contemptuously. ‘Wanting to bash up my mate Felix for no reason.’
‘Yeah, fair enough I suppose,’ conceded Les. ‘But now we got to get you out of Coogee and out of Sydney.’ He looked at Rinh first then the others. ‘I’m not going to be driving you back to Wagga, fellahs.’
‘We kind of figured that,’ said Clarence.
‘You got a driver’s licence, Angie?’ asked Les.
‘Yeah.’
‘Alright. You’re the new Varns.’
‘No sweat.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a lift part of the way home after the game,’ said Les. ‘Then you can get straight onto the highway from Parramatta Road. I’ll catch a cab back. Or a train. I don’t give a stuff.’
‘We thought of that, Les,’ replied Angie. ‘The only trouble is.’ She pointed to the rack of suits and dresses. ‘The bus isn’t all that big. And if we put all our stuff in there with us, our dancing gear’s going to get crushed to a pulp.’
‘And the Wagga Wagga dancing queens don’t want to come out looking like eight frumps,’ said Les.
‘Right on,’ nodded Angie.
‘Righto. Suits me I suppose. But bloody hell! I wouldn’t be hanging around here too long when you get back. Just grab your stuff and split. Pronto.’
‘For sure, for sure Les,’ said Angie. The others all nodded in agreeance.
‘Okay.’ Les turned to Rinh. ‘You got all the instructions and passes and that Dogs?’
Rinh nodded. ‘Everything’s in my bag.’
‘Okay then,’ said Les. ‘Let’s rock’n’roll. We got a grand final to win.’
‘Yeah. Let’s boogie,’ said Angie.
‘Before we go though,’ said Felix. ‘I just got to say one thing, the Varns.’
‘What’s that, Cats?’
‘You’re looking good, Reg. That’s the filthiest outfit I ever seen. Especially the tie.’
Les adjusted his collar. ‘Why thank you Catman,’ he smiled. ‘I never thought you’d notice.’
The boys got their travel bags, the girls got all their stuff and they filed out of the garage. Les locked it, got his own bag from the back seat of the Datty and they all piled into the bus.
Not much was said as they headed into town towards Central and Parramatta Road. The boys were naturally more than a little apprehensive with the big game in front of them. The girls seemed to be worried, though they still managed to maintain the cocksure attitude they had in the garage. This attitude disappeared when they stopped for a red light at Randwick Junction and a police car pulled up alongside. The driver had his eye on the traffic lights, but the young cop on the passenger side started giving the bus a bit of a once over for something to do.
‘Don’t take any notice of them,’ said Les. ‘Just keep looking straight ahead. Straight ahead.’
The lights changed, the police car pulled away and Les slowly moved in with the other traffic.
‘Shit! That was close,’ said Rinh.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Les. ‘I guess it’s just our lucky day.’
The conversation dropped right off after that. Which suited Les, because the traffic going up Parramatta Road was horrendous. One non-stop, procession of cars, trucks and buses that seemed to inch its way from one exhaust fume shrouded set of lights to the next. Les glanced at the faces in the rear-vision mirror and knew exactly what everyone was thinking. They’d be glad when this whole thing was all over and they could get out of the city and back home. So will I, thought Les. He glanced at his watch. And just a few more hours and it will be. Then I’ll have my money and life will return to normal. He stepped on the brakes for another set of lights burning through the clouds of carbon monoxide. Or as normal as my life seems to get these days.
If the traffic was bad along Parramatta Road, when they got to the Homebush Bay turn-off at Australia Avenue it seemed to multiply by ten and looked as if everybody in the Western suburbs with a car had descended on Homebush for the day. On top of this, the state government was digging the whole place up in preparation for the Olympic Games. Half the roads were closed or barricaded off with red, plastic strips and around all the confusion swarmed hordes of workmen along with their accompanying rumble of cranes, bulldozers, prime movers, trucks and just about every other type of monstrous earthmoving equipment there was. Les didn’t have a clue where he was going, the only thing that seemed to save them was a traffic warden in a broad-brimmed hat, sunglasses and a fluorescent green vest at every cordoned-off roundabout waving them along. Up on the left, Les noticed a massive building of tubular metal scaffolding and cables jutting up from a hill of dry grass and a bit further on a sign pointing towards it saying AQUATIC CENTRE. This has got to be it, thought Les. Another traffic warden waved them on, Les swung the bus up to the left and went behind the building towards the car park then swung the bus right when he saw another sign saying Bus Parking Area and pulled up alongside a row of empty buses as the rest of the traffic surged past.
‘Okay gang,’ he said, switching off the engine. ‘Looks like we’re here.’
‘Yeah. This is it alright,’ said Rinh.
‘God. It’s big,’ said Angie. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. And what about that traffic.’
‘Yeah. I hope it’s not as bad driving out,’ said Norton.
Les picked up his overnight bag and helped a couple of the girls off with their gear while Rinh carried the flag; then after locking the bus they all started trooping around to the main entrance.
It wasn’t all that far from the parking area and in an odd sort of way the building reminded Les a little of an atomic bomb shelter, the way the arched entrance was set into the side of the hill surrounded by thousands of roughly hewn, stone and granite slabs. A shiny, black obelisk sat out the front, and across the arch in blue was a sign saying SYDNEY INTERNATIONAL AQUATIC CENTRE, while along the walls inside the entrance were bronze plaques with the names of famous Australian olympic swimmers: Harold Hardwick, Sandra Morgan, Terry Gathercole, Beverly Whitfield, John Devitt, Lyn McClement, Mark Tonelli, and dozens of others. The boys and the girls looked at them in admiration, then they all squeezed through the crowds of people and went inside.
On the right was a counter, then a sports shop, in the middle sat a row of turnstiles and on the left against the wall, a glass showcase full of different brand trainers. A tall, fair-haired man in blue trousers and a white shirt saw them milling around and walked over from the turnstiles.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ answered Les. ‘We’re the Murrumbidgee Mud Crabs. We’re here for the grand final.’
‘No problems,’ said the attendant. ‘Go straight through that turnstile. Go left under that archway then take the stairs on your left down to the pool. They’re expecting you.’
‘Thanks mate,’ said Les. ‘Righto gang. This way.’
They trooped through the turnstiles then, before they headed downstairs, stopped on the walkway in from the entrance to take a look around. Les had never seen the Aquatic Centre before and when people said it was about the best in the world, it seemed they weren’t far wrong. Below on the right was a huge pool roped off into lanes, another pool for waders, a giant water slide, and several open showers spraying water into another shallow pool. Pastel-coloured, tubular scaffolding ran everywhere and one wall was built almost entirely of huge windows, letting the sun in on a small forest of indoor palms. The noise rising up from the thousands of people either swimming, wading or walking around was incredible, and for some reason the sheer height and size of the place reminded Les of a biosphere. Below them on the left side of the walkway were another two huge pools surrounded by seats leading nearly up to the ceiling that were already almost filled with spectators. The closest pool was roped off and divided from the other by a tiled walkway. In the distance Les could see a diving tower and an electronic scoreboard above the second pool along with several TV cameras. There was a bandstand in the right hand corner and going by the hubbub of the crowd in the stands and the people milling around Les surmised this was where they were holding the grand final. He was about to say something when a four piece band in T-shirts and jeans materialised on stage and started belting out ‘Whole Lotta Shakin’. Les couldn’t tell who the three blokes and the girl were, but they weren’t bad at just playing good time, boogie woogie, rock’n’roll. In next to no time the band had the punters in the stands clapping and singing and doing everything but dancing in the aisles, giving the whole scene a boogie down, carnival atmosphere.
