Davo's Little Something by Robert G. Barrett Read Free Book Online Page B

Street and one was in a coma and looked like dying. The builders’ labourers and the mail sorters were out on strike along with some other union, neither knew positively what they were out for but they definitely weren’t going back till they got it. The only good thing in the paper was a massive-breasted page three girl. Davo dwelt on that while he finished his coffee then, feeling a bit hungry from missing lunch and seeing as Colin was coming around at nine he decided to have an early tea. He peeled some vegetables, put them on a slow boil then climbed out of his smelly work clothes and got under the shower.
    Davo couldn’t help but break into a song as the steaming, hot water splashed over his body and he soaped away the sweat and grease from work; before long a grin broke out across his face as he started thinking about Sandra and Saturday night. I still can’t believe this he thought. It’s got to be too good to be true. She’s what—eighteen? And an unbelievably good sort to boot. He shook his head. No. It’s too good to be true. As he started shaving in a small mirror he had hanging from the shower nozzle he decided to put it out of his mind. If I rely on it, knowing my luck, something’s bound to go wrong. It’s too good to be true and I’ll believe it when it happens on Saturday night. He finished showering, dried off and climbed into a track suit. In the kitchen he got two pork chops out of the fridge, placed them under the griller and switched on the TV in the loungeroom to get the 6.30 news at the same time.
    Davo’s two bedroom unit was quite large and modern with two balconies and a double garage downstairs. It was carpeted throughout, there was plenty of solid, comfortable furniture, some indoor plants and the odd painting or poster on a wall to brighten things up. Sue had taken more than her share of things when she left but she didn’t actually leave him staring at bare walls either, and Davo wasn’t short of a dollar to get it all together again. He kept it reasonably clean, especially the kitchen, and it was more than adequate for one man; or a married couple for that matter. However, compared to Wayne and David’s three bedroom unit a few blocks closer to the beach it looked like a $2 a night lossman in Bali.
    White, pure wool, Berber carpet, that thick you almost needed snow shoes to walk on it, splashed up against every wall and built-in wardrobe. This was enhanced by exquisite, crystal chandeliers that tinkled in every room, including the toilets and bathroom. A monstrous, burgundy coloured, crushed velvet Ottoman spread itself across the huge loungeroom, surrounded by a numerous variety of lustrously healthy indoor plants and vines that meandered around and under the original oil paintings, watercolours and beaten bronze plaques that hung on every wall except one. This wall was covered by a mammoth, antique, polished cedar bookcase, crammed with everything from the classics to Hunter S. Thompson, S^ren Kierkegaard and Allen Ginsberg. If you didn’t care for reading and felt like a drink or a bit of music, a sumptuously stocked bar, complete with crystal decanters and silver goblets, stood next to a dazzlingly modern Bang & Olufsen TV, compact-disc, stereo home entertainment centre with an extensive collection of records, CDs and cassettes and not one out of place. This faced an enormous kitchen full of all the latest electrical appliances, so modern and up-to-date it was almost experimental.
    The loungeroom light was on when Wayne opened the front door and stepped inside; he called out cheerfully before walking across to the kitchen then down the corridor where he could see the light shining from David’s bedroom. David was propped up in bed surrounded by almost a wall of salmon-pink, satin pillows, matching satin sheets and a deep maroon, woollen bedcover. A pair of red, silk pyjamas, with his initials monogrammed on the top pocket,