Guns 'n' Rose by Robert G. Barrett Read Free Book Online

stool.
    It was more comfortable lounges and colonial furniture. There was a large fireplace, a bookcase, more paintings on the walls and long high windows overlooking the beer garden and the ocean. There weren’t many people in the beer garden and only about eight in the lounge counting Les; four young girls and over to his right, two po-faced women about fifty were talking to a dark-haired girl facing them, who was wearing a denim jacket. Les couldn’t see her face, but for some reason the hair looked familiar. He stood there for a minute or two sipping his beer and while he checked out one of the paintings he seemed to get this feeling of eyes watching him from a reflection in a window. Well, this is all very nice, but I want some ak-shun-Iwanna-live. Norton finished his beer, placed the bottleon the nearest table and left down the stairs, the same way he came in.
    The disco was round the corner from the revolving door, past a brass railing and some shops. It was a black-and-silver door and windows and a black-andsilver sign saying QUAY WEST NITE CLUB . Standing just inside the door near the counter, a lounge and some potted palms was a tired-looking doorman in black and white who looked more pudding than condition. It was five bucks entry. Les pulled out some money and went to pay the equally tired-looking girl at the counter when the doorman came over.
    â€˜Sorry, mate. I can’t let you in.’
    â€˜Can’t let me in?’ Norton gave the doorman a boozy double blink. ‘Why? What have I done?’
    â€˜You gotta have a collar on your shirt.’
    â€˜A collar on my shirt?’ Les couldn’t believe it. The shirt was a Preswick and Moore Susie had brought back from Melbourne for him as a present for looking after the flat and giving him the arse at the same time. It was pure Toorak Road, South Yarra, and cost $175. Even if Side Valve probably stole it. Norton looked the doorman right in the eye. ‘I’ll bet you’re a good local boy, aren’t you?’ You could hear the wooden cogs inside the doorman’s head go round as he grunted and nodded something at the same time. ‘Yeah, and you’ve lived here all your life. Well, there’s this new style out. Not T-shirts. Just good cotton or linen shirts with no collars. They’re sometimes called grandpa shirts.’
    â€˜That’s what I said, mate,’ droned the doorman. ‘You gotta have a collar on your shirt to get in.’ He was dumb, but polite.
    After walking all the way down the hill, Norton wasn’t particularly in the mood for being dicked around for no reason. He was ready to tell the doorman to get stuffed, throw his five dollars on the counter and go in and if the doorman wanted him out he could try; and any of his mates, too. Les was about to make a move when a half dapper-looking bloke in a grey suit with a name tag walked in the door.
    â€˜Hey, mate,’ said Les. ‘Are you the boss here?’
    â€˜Yes, I’m the night manager.’
    â€˜Well, what’s all this “I can’t get in without a collar on my shirt”? Where do you think I got this? Out of the church bin across the road? Besides that, I’ve just spent a fortune in the restaurant upstairs with some people who are guests here. And I happen to be a doctor.’
    â€˜That’s quite all right, sir. Don’t worry about it.’ Grey Suit made a gesture and looked tiredly at the doorman. ‘Brian, next time, try and use some discretion, will you?’
    â€˜Use some what?’
    Norton leant over and put his face about two inches away from the doorman’s. ‘What he’s talking is brains, Brian. If you don’t know what that means, look it up in a dictionary. You’ll find it between arsehole and cunt.’ Les smiled thinly, paid his five dollars and walked inside.
    There was a passageway, then the gents and ladies on your left near an alcove leading to a fire