The Godson (8 page)

‘Neither do I,' replied Norton, avoiding Warren's stare.

‘We could go up the Sebel and see him,' said the brunette.

‘No.' Norton shook his head firmly. ‘He's just come off a thirty-hour flight and he's buggered. He wants to go straight to bed.'

‘Oh,' said the brunette.

‘But not to worry,' said Norton brightly, giving his hands a rub. ‘All's not lost. Why don't we have a little party here?'

The two blondes looked at Norton like he was something the police had just exhumed. ‘Can you take us to the Sheaf?' they asked Warren, as the brunette rose from the lounge and zipped up her jacket.

‘Sure.' Warren finished his Jack Daniel's and Coke. ‘You want to come down the Sheaf, Les?'

Norton shook his head. ‘No, mate. I got to make a few phone-calls and I want to have an early night. I got a fair bit to do tomorrow.'

‘Okay. Well I'll see you when I get home.'

‘See you then.'

Warren ushered the girls down the hallway. They didn't say goodbye to Les. Les didn't bother to say goodbye to them.

After throwing some chops under the griller Norton tried once more to ring Price and Eddie, but got the same answer as before. He finished his meal and after another couple of unsuccessful attempts settled back to watch a Chevvy Chase movie on TV. He was in bed by eleven. Warren came home alone about twenty minutes later.

B
Y
M
ONDAY THE
weather was noticeably warmer. The sou'wester had swung around to the north and although there was the odd bunch of grey clouds pushing across the sky there was more than enough sunshine. It was an ideal day for a run in Centennial Park. Norton did exactly that, plus some exercises after he got up at seven. Warren was still in bed when he left, but was up and finishing breakfast when a perspiration-streaked Les returned home at eight-thirty. In contrast to Norton's sweaty florid appearance Warren had the look of a cat that had just drunk all the cream and was almost whistling to himself when Les walked into the kitchen.

‘Hello, Les,' he said airily, looking up from his coffee. ‘How was the run?'

‘Good,' replied Norton. ‘You should get up and try it yourself one day.'

‘I was going to, but the alarm never went off.'

Les opened the fridge and took out a bottle of spa-water. ‘What happened with your three girlfriends last night? Friendly little trio, weren't they?'

‘Yeah,' agreed Warren. ‘They were a bit up themselves all right. I ended up leaving them at Baxters.'

‘Lucky Baxters.'

The twinkle still in his eye, Warren continued to study Norton as he drank the spa-water straight from the bottle. ‘You read this morning's paper?' he asked very matter-of-factly.

Les looked at the
Daily Telegraph
sitting on the kitchen table. ‘Nahh. Why should I? Apart from the football results, there's
never anything in it on Monday.' Saying that, he flipped it over to the back sports page. ‘Hello. Wests beat Manly. 266. Shit! How about that?'

‘Yes,' answered Warren, still smirking. ‘Evidently one of the Manly players got sent off for head butting.'

‘Yeah?' Norton shrugged. ‘Oh well. Serves the prick right.'

Warren finished his coffee and headed towards the door. ‘Anyway. I'd better get going. The advertising world is calling. I'll ah … leave you with the paper. Ta ta, mate,' he chirrupped.

‘Yeah, righto, Woz. See you tonight.' Norton stared down the hallway for a moment after Warren had left. He's in a funny mood this morning, he thought. Maybe he got his end in last night and he's not telling me. Anyway, I'm going to have a shower and cook a bit of breakfast. Then I'd better go and check up on Lord Shitbags at the Sebel.

After he'd showered and changed into a tracksuit, Les made some toasted sandwiches and a pot of tea and settled down to enjoy them while he flicked through the morning paper.

The front page was the usual thing. More strikes. Another cocaine bust. The Prime Minister jumping up and down because America was poaching Australia's wheat market. Norton thumbed on heading towards the sports section till he came across Damien T'aime's column. T'aime was a pudding-faced journalist who wrote a full-page social cum gossip column. Not quite a social butterfly — more of a social cockroach — T'aime liked nothing better than to dig up dirt and dust and whatever he could to embarrass the glitterati and fringe dwellers of Sydney society. The column was always written in a breezy, high camp but acerbically witty style. Leading restauranteurs were referred to as noshmongers. Actors were mummers. Firstnighters were the freebocracy. Parties were called knees ups and were always launched in either a sea of Fosters or a tidal wave of Moet amidst a crush of bouffants and bagels surrounded by fragrant women enveloped in a blizzard of lace and taffeta etc, etc. But it was an amusing enough column and if it didn't quite tip a bucket on the pompous Sydney social scene, it certainly tipped a well-deserved teacup or two, thanks to the information supplied by Damien's moles, as he always referred to his informants. Damien must have had a mole well and truly planted in The Sebel Town House because when Norton saw the banner across T'aime's column for Monday the fifteenth, his bulging eyes nearly rolled out of his head and plopped in his tea.

BOOZY BARONET BUTTS BLACK-CLAD BORE
howled the headline, and underneath it were two photos. One was of Peregrine waving a bottle of champagne in the bar of The Sebel Town House and the other was of a scowling radio announcer, Adam Pratt, who Norton recognised because he always wore black clothes and a black hat, being ordered from the premises by the hotel security.

‘Jesus Christ!' wailed Norton in astonished disbelief. ‘What the fuck's this?' He began reading the column.

 

My, my, my (T'aime's column miaowed) what
is
the Royal Family coming to? It appears mega-rich Brit and Baronet somewhere in the queue for the throne, Sir Peregrine Normanhurst III is implanted at The Sebel Town House. Pezza, it seems, was enjoying a quaff or three of champers in the Sebel bar when Bollinger Bolshie and airwaves bore Adam Pratt accosted him for an interview. One word led to another and I'm told the bolstered baronet nutted Pratt with an absolutely splendid head butt one would expect to find more amongst Liverpool dock-workers than the fun-loving Royal Family. No one knows who started the set-to at the Sebel, but on Sir Peregrine's request, ashen-faced staff were forced to remove Pratt. And seeing as Sir P. is gladly forking out $700 a night to stay in The Sir Robert Helpmann Suite at The Sebel, Pezza's request held a lot more sway than the black clad, media star who was flung out into the cold forthwith. Sebel staff are as usual tight-lipped about the whole affair, but be assured, gentle readers, your scribe will keep digging. Incidentally, that rattling sound you're hearing is Sir Robert Helpmann rolling over in his grave.

 

Norton quickly read it again then let out one word. ‘Shit!!!' He dropped the paper and what he was eating and hurried to the phone dreading the thought of making the call. It rang just as he got there. Ohh Jesus, thought Les, his heart sinking, I'll bet this is him now. It was.

‘Les! Have you seen this morning's paper?' howled Price.

‘Yeah. I just read it.'

‘Well, what bloody happened?'

‘Didn't you get my message?' swallowed Les.

‘Yes. And why wouldn't he stay at your place?'

‘Dunno,' lied Norton. ‘Me and Warren done the room up for him. Got new sheets for the bed. Even put some flowers in there. He just wanted to stay at the Sebel. I couldn't stop him. What was I gonna do? Put a headlock on him?'

‘Christ! Wait till O'Malley sees this. He's going to have a stroke.' There was a pause on the line through which Les could hear Price's laboured breathing. ‘What are you doing now?'

‘Nothing,' replied Norton. ‘I only just read the paper and I was about to call you.'

‘Right. Well go straight up to the Sebel Town House and keep an eye on this prick. And don't let him out of your sight. I can't put my head into it, but ring me as soon as you get up there.'

‘Righto, Price. See you then.'

Norton hung up and looked at the phone for a moment. I suppose I'd better ring Lord Beaverbrook up, tell him I'm on my way and make sure he waits for me. He began thumbing through the phone-book.

The receptionist at The Sebel was polite, but firm. Sir Peregrine had left strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed before twelve noon. No phone calls, nothing. Sorry, Mr Norton, but those are my orders. Thank you, sir. Shit! fumed Norton. He rang Price again who angrily debated whether Les should go up and kick the door in. But he figured that with the hotel security on the job Peregrine should be safe enough. He told Les not to worry, just be at The Sebel at twelve and go straight to Peregrine's room.

Norton hung up once more and looked at his watch; it was getting on for ten. What to do till twelve? Well, I can finish my breakfast for a start, he thought, moving back to the kitchen. Then start packing a bit of gear for the trip, and I'll pick up that car this afternoon. I'll take His Highness out with me. The tea was still warm, Les poured himself a cup and began flicking through the paper again, subconsciously turning to T'aime's column on page six. Somehow the sight of Pratt being flung out of the Sebel and the Hooray Henry waving the bottle of champagne in the air managed to take the flavour right out of Norton's toasted ham sandwiches.

T
HE ATTRACTIVE, WELL-GROOMED
public relations lady at The Sebel had to be the most polite person Les had ever come across in his life. She introduced herself as Katherine, rang Peregrine's room and escorted Les up in the lift. By the time they'd reached the tenth floor Norton was sure she had a black belt in manners and a degree from Harvard in diplomacy. Norton felt a bit edgy about the whole scene, but Katherine
soothingly assured him it was just one of those unfortunate incidents that do happen from time to time and Sir Peregrine definitely was not at fault. She took him to Peregrine's room, knocked, and then opened the door for him. Les thanked her and was told it was a pleasure.

Norton couldn't quite believe his eyes when he first stepped into Peregrine's suite. It was a huge white room surrounded by floor to ceiling mirrors reflecting the light from a number of crystal chandeliers hanging daintily from the ceiling. Where there were no mirrors, the walls were dotted with watercolours and other paintings. Powder blue carpet ran wall to wall, blending in perfectly with the turquoise lounge and other furnishings. A glass table and chairs sat in front of a bed which looked more like Bondi Baths with a doona thrown over it. The entire wall behind the bed was a beautifully tiled and painted al-fresco mural of the Mediterranean, which made the whole room look twice as big again and beyond the bed through a length of lace curtains Les could see a balcony with views across half of Sydney. Norton was checking out the contents of a bar to his right when he heard a voice trill out.

‘Les, dear boy. Over here.'

Norton stepped in a little further and turned to his left. Sitting back in an immense spa-bath covered in foaming soapsuds and holding a glass of champagne, was Peregrine. Next to the gold plated taps behind his head was an ice-bucket holding a bottle of Cristal champagne and next to this was a tray containing the remnants of a dozen oysters, lobster and prawn terrine, caviar and some smoked salmon. From the way Peregrine's eyes were swimming around Norton tipped that the bottle of bubbly sitting in the ice-bucket wasn't the Englishman's first.

‘Hello, old porpoise,' beamed Peregrine, holding up his glass. ‘How goes it?'

The change in Peregrine from the serious-faced aristocrat who had arrived at Mascot, to the Hooray Henry guzzling champagne in the bubble bath took Norton by surprise. ‘How goes it?' he parroted. ‘Pretty good, I suppose. What about yourself?'

‘Splendid. Absolutely splendid.' Peregrine took a large slurp of champagne, and smiled at Norton. ‘Well, don't look so glum, old chum. Help yourself to a glass of champers. It's a jolly good drop this. It's Elton's favourite, you know.'

Norton stared at Peregrine as if he couldn't quite believe
what he was seeing or hearing. ‘Have you seen this morning's paper?' he asked.

‘Yes.' Peregrine motioned with his glass. ‘It's on the bed. Bit of a beano that one, what? Not a bad photo,' he smiled. ‘But I don't quite know if I like that hack's way with words. I know you Australians are a bit light on when it comes to protocol and manners. But referring to me as Pezz! I mean to say.' Peregrine screwed up his face and took another slurp of champagne.

‘Do you know how many people read that T'aime's column?' asked Les incredulously.

Peregrine shrugged. ‘I imagine about the same number who listen to that other oaf on the radio. Not very many at all.'

‘Well, you're wrong. About half a bloody million a day.' Peregrine continued to look uninterested. ‘Christ, mate,' said Les. ‘We're trying to keep you under wraps, and now half of bloody Sydney knows you're here.'

‘So?' shrugged Peregrine again.

‘So! Jesus! Don't you realise the trouble you're in? And the trouble we're going to for you?' Norton shook his head in exasperation at the indifferent look on Peregrine's face. ‘What happened, anyway?'

‘It was all quite ridiculous, actually.' Peregrine reached behind him and topped up his glass with Cristal. ‘You sure you won't have some?' Norton shook his head as Peregrine settled back into the bath. ‘Well, I left you and came to my room. Had a bite to eat, got cleaned up and found I was a bit over-tired. So I thought I'd nip down to the bar and have a drink or two before retiring. Anyway, I'm in there, sipping a bottle of champers, minding my own business and admiring a photo of Carol Drinkwater on the wall, when this spoofer, all dressed in black with a ridiculous black hat on and some stupid medallion strung round his neck comes up, thrusts a microphone in my face and demands an interview. I told him to naff off and went back to the bar. So whoever he is, follows me over and starts pestering me again.'