Free The Godson by Robert G. Barrett

they?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ agreed Warren. ‘They were a bit up themselves all right. I ended up leaving them at Baxters.’
    â€˜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’snever 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?’
    â€˜Yes,’ answered Warren, still smirking. ‘Evidently one of the Manly players got sent off for head butting.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 BOREhowled 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.
    â€˜Jesus Christ!’ wailed Norton in astonished disbelief. ‘What the fuck’s this?’ He began reading the column.
    Â 
    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