Читать книгу Mordialloc - James Maclean - Страница 16

It was all back-slapping, high-fiving, and promises of eternal friendship, when a tooting car horn resonated from the street. After taking a lot of solid ribbing, due to their expected “no-show”, Bullet Bulowski finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Floyd was out of his chair in a flash. He didn’t want them changing their minds. Jenny’s late exit had left his plans in tatters. This was definitely his last opportunity to salvage something. Kenny Coen stood up too. He lit a cigarette, coughed, and put it out. He tossed his old beer in the direction in the barbeque and sat back down. He cracked a fresh beer to coincide with the strangers’ late entrance. The perspiration was forming in the palms of his hand. It was also gathering just below his hairline. He could feel his pulse racing.

Big Glen looked on with indifference. He was with his buddies. He’d outstayed his older antagonists. He was happily drinking his way through something other than cheap bubbly. His reputation spoke for itself, as he caressed his right bicep then tensed it for effect. If there were chicks; he’d score!

‘Guys, this is Tim,’ said Floyd eagerly. He introduced the man beside him to the remains of what had been a pretty decent party.

The picture wasn’t exactly awe inspiring. Beer cans littered the garden, a broken plastic chair hung off the fence, and the accompanying table was upturned in the garden bed. Seven jaded young men were swapping fabricated stories round a dwindling barbeque. Bob Seger could be heard crooning in the background, ‘still running against the wind’. Just one look at the remnants told you – he wasn’t alone.

Big Glen looked up from what he was doing. He was about to make a wise crack when he caught the pleading eyes of a desperate Floyd McGuinness. Tim was somebody Glen recognised, but from where? He was definitely old Grammar school Glen surmised. Probably the same year as Floyd’s brother Doug, if his memory served him correctly. The bloody exams had all but burnt him out. Shit, if it hadn’t been for Floyd’s notes in the biology exam, amongst others, Glen knew he might have well been heading back to St. Stephen’s next year for another go.

‘Timmy, me old mate, pull up a chair and take a load off!’ said Glen finally. He tossed Tim a can and leant out in the process. He exagerated the throw to get a better view of the ladies shuffling in happily behind. He zeroed in on his target. She was built like a battle ship but with the face of an angel. They certainly don’t build ’em like that anymore Glen mused. He sculled the remains of this beer, then thought with purpose. ‘Someone’s gotta get this show on the road.’

Glen had just crushed his beer can when the buxom Ronda gave a cursory glance at the remaining hopefuls. She then made a bee-line straight for Bullet Bulowski.

‘Aren’t you going to show me your motorbike?’ she tweeted, with all the candour of a woman who had obviously seen it before.

‘Why don’t I do just that!’ replied Bulowski. His eyes were on the hungry Glen Harkin as he headed Rhonda off then deftly moved her in the direction of the exit. No time for a ‘goodbye’ or a ‘thank you gentlemen very much.’ Bulowski had her out of there in a flash. He did though, when he knew he had her in the clear, stop, lean back, and give his mates a quick sly ‘wink’. All very classy; right up to the part where he adjusted his nuts.

What a bloody set up! Glen Harkin needed to scream. He was about to let fly when he turned to Tim. Tim’s eyes were bulging in disbelief. His face was a deep crimson, and he had saliva forming around corners of his mouth. The poor sap looked to be in shock. Surely Rhonda must have understood his intentions when a chance encounter led him to offering his chauffer services. Their conversation had been truly deep and meaningful; surely she must have felt it too.

‘Nothing like being taken for a ride,’ Glen chuckled openly, patting the shell-shocked Tim on the knee. Timmy certainly wasn’t the first poor sucker to shuttle round a group of single ladies for the night, with the unspoken promise of a bit of slap and tickle at the end of it all for his services.

Unfortunately though, all his careful planning and strategising, the fawning and the waiting, car parking fees and petrol money; it had all come to nothing. And now here he was, stuck at the dying end of some stranger’s party, saddled with four second stringers he’d promised to get home safely, and getting ridiculed by some young beef cake. Could it possibly get any worse?

Springing to action, Floyd didn’t waste any time. He immediately engaged the remaining girls with a bit of the idle gossip he was famous for. He wasn’t under any illusion, if they had somewhere better to be, they’d already be there. This was their last stop. They were probably only there care of their friend Rhonda anyway. Now she’d flown, the clock was ticking.

Poor Tim also looked ready to evacuate. The moment Bulowski shot through with the prize he’d started dropping hints. Fortunately, Big Glen was now down to his singlet top. The girls seemed pretty impressed with what was on display. It might have only been about 10 degrees but the act was an old one, and Glen certainly had the potatoes. If they could just get a few drinks into Timmy boy, things might still work out alright.

‘What about a drinking game to get this little party jumping?’ Floyd enquired with just a little too much enthusiasm. ‘Who likes champagne punch?’

The four remaining girls nodded eagerly. Floyd knew his was on a winner. Tim voiced a pathetic protest about driving, but was continually berated until until he gave up in dispair. He didn’t take much convincing in the end. After the battering his pride had taken already, his driving license was chicken feed.

Big Glen winced slightly at the mention of the champagne, but he was in too. Kenny got the cards, shuffling them fiercely as he began a rhetorical recital of ‘The Lord’s Prayer’. He’d make it this time, he promised himself, if it was the last thing he ever did.

‘For God’s sake, play your cards right this time!’ quipped Floyd. He seemed uncannily to know exactly what his best friend was thinking. Squeezing snugly between Kenny and a lovely new arrival, Floyd got the game underway.

Kenny knew the move but was slow to counter. He hinted progressively but Floyd avoided his stare. There were no pangs of betrayal this late in the evening. It was “late night lurkin,’’ and it was every man for himself.