Guns 'n' Rose by Robert G. Barrett

“Rattus Norvegicus”.’
    â€˜Hey, Les, you know your music.’
    â€˜Warren—the bloke I live with—he’s got the CD.’ Les took another mouthful of mineral water. ‘You didn’t seem to mind some of the stuff I had playing in the car.’
    â€˜Country and Western. Are you kidding?’ Jimmy started to laugh. ‘Rural-influenced contemporary music. In fact, I’ve got a surprise for you later, Les.’
    â€˜You have?’
    â€˜Yep. We’re going out for a couple of hours at six o’clock.’
    â€˜We are? Where?’
    â€˜Over to Avoca. I reckon you’ll love it. So don’t get pissed.’
    Norton shrugged and nodded to the ice bucket. ‘Not on that shit, I won’t.’
    The entrees arrived. Jimmy’s oysters were creamy, plump and fresh that day, and he ate them like a gentleman. Norton’s laksa was rich, spicy, full of succulent prawns and noodles with seasoned, fried shallots on top and, despite a finger bowl, he ate it like a caveman. Then, hard as it was to believe, the cajun coral perch was as good or even better. Two fat fillets of delicious blackened fish that fell apart on a bed of shredded lettuce into the sour cream. If Norton had been a dog, he would have run out to the kitchen and started rooting the chef’s leg. They slipped, slopped and slurped away, getting into the salad and garlic bread as well till there was nothing left. Les was good on the tooth. But for his size Jimmy wasn’t bad either and despite a bottle of wine he didn’t appear to be the slightest bit drunk.
    Les raised his second glass of mineral water. ‘Well, Jimmy, I’ve got to hand it to you.’
    â€˜My choice of restaurants?’
    â€˜That. Plus you’ve drunk a whole bottle of wine and haven’t carried on like a drunken abo.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜Yep. You haven’t picked a fight with the owner. You haven’t abused any of the other customers and asked them what they’re looking at. And you haven’t calledme a boofheaded white cunt and told me I stole your country.’
    Jimmy sniffed indifferently. ‘Why bother? You don’t need me to tell you that. Besides, you’re driving me around, picking up the tab—you even carry my bag for me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a goosey big mug.’ Jimmy drained the last of his wine and blinked at the look on Norton’s face. ‘Les, Les, I’m sorry. You’re not. You’re not a mug, are you? Good Lord, why didn’t you tell me?’
    What could Norton say? He’d been completely hoisted with his own petard. ‘Jimmy, I reckon you could make carrot cake out of cow shit.’
    â€˜Too right, Les. I might be temporarily bunged up at the moment, but I sure as hell ain’t climbing up mug’s hill on the slippery side.’
    â€˜So what do you want to do now?’
    â€˜I wouldn’t mind going for walk. Walk the meal off. Just get out in the open for a little while.’
    â€˜Good idea, Jimmy. Whereabouts?’ Les nodded over the balcony. ‘Terrigal.’
    â€˜Avoca. I like it down there.’
    â€˜Okay, let’s go.’
    As they got to their feet Jimmy pointed to the bill. ‘Oh, and Les, don’t forget a substantial tip.’
    Norton grinned and patted his stomach. ‘You don’t have to worry about that, Jimmy.’
    With Jimmy giving directions, Les drove past the Haven and on up the hill to the North Avoca turn-off. Jimmy explained how you couldn’t drive directly to South Avoca because of the lagoon in the middle, but you could get there easy enough walking along thebeach, which was what they were going to do. The road led down, then on past a cluster of shops; Les pulled up in a small carpark next to North Avoca Surf Club.
    â€˜We may as well leave our shoes in the car,’ suggested Jimmy.
    â€˜Good thinking, 99,’ said