Free You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids by Robert G. Barrett Page B

that,’ said the attendant. The sight of Les’s muscles and hairy chest bulging out under his T-shirt had him starting to gush a bit. ‘Would some Moet Chandon do you?’
    â€˜Moet bloody Chandon,’ sneered Les, really giving it the Leo Schofield treatment. ‘You’re kidding. I wouldn’t give that to my bloody dog. What year is it?’
    â€˜Seventy-two,’ replied the attendant meekly. ‘Is that all right?’ Norton’s aggressive macho act had him almost swooning. He was Norton’s slave.
    â€˜I s’pose it’ll have to do, won’t it?’ replied Les. ‘All right, give us three bottles. And toss in a bottle of Tia Maria, too. You’d better bloody well have that.’
    â€˜Oh of course we have,’ said the attendant, fussing around like an old moll as he got the bottles out of the fridge and started wrapping them up. ‘Having a bit of a party, are we?’
    â€˜Yeah. I brought me two hairdressers up for a few days,’ said Les running his fingers through his thick red hair. ‘They’re a couple of terrific young blokes, too.’ He handed the attendant the money, making a big show of it as he pulled out the wad he’d lifted off the yobs.
    â€˜Ooh, you might like to invite me around for a few drinks. Are they from Sydney, are they?’ The attendant was gushing like a fountain by now.
    â€˜Yeah. But you know the old saying, son,’ said Les, pocketing the change. ‘Three’s company, four’s a crowd. I might see you tomorrow, though.’ He gave the attendant a wink and left the shop.
    As soon as Les walked out the door the attendant slumped down in a chair and started fanning himself with a magazine. He was completely shattered.
    Christ, thought Les, chuckling to himself as he put the drink in the car, a man’s lucky to get out of there with his cherry. He arranged the bottles securely on the back seat then went to a chemist, bought a bottle of Mennen, some under-arm deodorant and went straight home.
    It was almost five o’clock by the time Les had made a cup of tea and put the drink in the fridge, so he decided to lie down for an hour. He wanted to be nice and fresh when he got there; besides this sister Sophia sounded interesting and if she was anything like Diane she’d be all right. A man might be half a chance too, he thought.
    He woke up feeling a bit thick-headed just after six. The combination of the two schooners and the day in the sun had dried him out a bit so he had a drink of water, went downstairs and jumped in the pool — the water felt like ice but it freshened him straight up. After splashing around for a few minutes he trotted upstairs and got under a steaming shower.
    Fifteen or so minutes later he finished showering and shaving and felt like a million dollars. He threw on a clean pair of jeans, sneakers and a lemon coloured Lacoste pullover he’d bought from one of the thieves at Bondi. Not half a bad sort, son, he thought to himself, checking himself out in the mirror as he slapped the Mennen on to his face and gave his armpits a liberal dousing of deodorant; not half a bad sort at all. All I need is a few gold chains round my neck and I’d look like Barry Gibb. He gave his dense red hair a quick detail with a plastic ‘bug rake’ and turned out the bathroom light.
    Les was whistling softly to himself as he got the chilled champagne out of the fridge and placed it in a carton alongside the Tia Maria. He checked the address Diane had given him in his UBD street directory. It was easy enough to find, so he tucked the carton up under his arm, locked up the house and was on his way; ten minutes later he was almost at Forresters Beach.
    Shit, I’m getting nice and hungry, thought Les as he turned off The Entrance Road into Crystal Street for the short run to the beach. I hope they got plenty on.
    Diane’s sister’s place turned out to be a