Leaving Bondi
By
Robert G. Barrett
Les figured by tossing $50,000 into the Gull's movie
he'd become the next Sam Goldwyn. Only someone put
a bomb on the film set. And who gets the blame?
Now Norton's a fugitive from the law, desperate
to prove his innocence.
Satanists, drug dealers, nutty poets, blabbermouth
disc jockeys -- everybody between Sydney, the Blue Mountains and South Australia wants a piece of Les
Norton, movie magnate. Alias Forrest McNamara, book
publisher. Alias Conrad Ullrich, company director. And
Norman Bates's mother. The only person who found the
real Les Norton was the May Queen -- with a little
help from the Avis navigator.
So what are Norton's chances of clearing his name
and coming up smelling of roses? VFO. But rely on
Les to come up smelling of something.
Robert G. Barrett's latest Les Norton adventure,
Leaving Bondi, set in Sydney, the Blue Mountains and
Victor Harbor in South Australia, is a cracking murder
mystery. And proves again why Barrett is -- to quote the
Australian newspaper -- 'the king of popular fiction'.
HarperCollinsPublishers
ISBN 0-7322-6871-0
http://www.harpcrcollins.com.au
FICTION
9"780732"268718"
Robert G. Barrett was raised in Sydney's Bondi where he worked
mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the
Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number
of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career
as a writer. He is the author of sixteen books, including So What Do
You Reckon? - a collection of his columns for People magazine, Mud
Crab Boogie, Goodoo Goodoo, and The Wind and the Monkey, his
previous Les Norton adventure published by HarperCollins.
Visit Bob's official web site
and the home of Team Norton at:
http://www.robertgbarrett.com.au
Also by Robert G. Barrett in HarperCollins:
So What Do You Reckon?
Mud Crab Boogie
Goodoo Goodoo
The Wind and the Monkey
DEDICATION
HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in Australia in 2000
Reprinted in 2000
by HarperCollinsPublishers Pty Limited ABN 36 009 913 517
A member of the HarperCollinsPublishers (Australia) Pty Limited Group
http://www.harpercollins.com.au
Copyright (D Psycho Possum Productions Pty Ltd 2000
This book is copyright.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research,
criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be
reproduced by any process without written permission.
Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers.
HarperCollinsPublishers 25 Ryde Road, Pymble, Sydney, NSW 2073, Australia
31 View Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand
77-85 Fulham Palace Road, London, W6 8JB, United Kingdom
Hazelton Lanes, 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900, Toronto, Ontario M5R 3L2 and 1995 Markham Road, Scarborough, Ontario M1B 5M8, Canada
10 East 53rd Street, New York NY 10022, USA
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Barrett. Robert G.
Leaving Bondi.
ISBN 0 7322 6871 0.
1. Norton, Les (Fictitious character) - Fiction I. Title.
A823.3
Cover illustration by Nice Stuff
Cover design by Darian Causby, HarperCollins Design Studio
Typeset by HarperCollins in 12/20 Minion
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press on 80-sm Bulky Book Ivory
This book is dedicated to Major General Peter Cosgrove and all the
Australian Forces who served in East Timor. I got a lot of letters from
the troops. I know they did a great job up there and they're still doing
a great job. And we should all be proud of them.
A percentage of the royalties from this book is being donated to:
The Wombat Rescue and Research Project
Lot 4, Will-O-Wynn Valley
Murrays Run NSW 2325
765432
03 02 O1 00
Despite George Brennan's running gag about Les Norton
getting arrested for breaking into a fifty-dollar bill, then being
acquitted because it was his first offence, Les wasn't all that mean
with his money. A bit tight? Maybe. Careful? Definitely. Distrustful?
After watching some of the people around him whilst living in Bondi
and working at Kings Cross: one hundred per cent. But mean? No.
Definitely not. If it was Norton's turn to shout or he had to spend his
money on something necessary, he would. And some of the money
he'd come across in his jaunts here and there, Les had certainly
spread around. Which, somehow, often came back to him.
However, Les wasn't into the share market or real estate. He
owned his own home and was more than happy with that. Even
backing some of Price's horses at short odds had lost its allure,
whether they were good things or not. As far as Les was concerned,
there were only three places to keep any spare cash you had lying
around: In the bank. Buried somewhere, where you could get to it
easily if you wanted to. Or strapped tightly to your body where
pickpockets or such couldn't get to it easily if they wanted to.
So for an extremely cautious person like Norton to invest fifty
thousand dollars in a movie, a movie that was virtually just anotherAustralian meat-pie western, would take close to an act of God. Or
whoever talked Les into it would have to be the greatest salesperson
on the planet. But Les had his reasons for investing such a vast
amount of his hard-earned into a dodgy Z-grade flick. It all came
about through Les hanging around Ray Tracy's Japanese restaurant
next to Bondi Beach Public School.
The way things were going in Bondi, the Gull's Toriyoshi Yakitari
wasn't a bad place to hang for a feed and a cool one. The old Icebergs
was still a pile of bulldozed rubble money-hungry developers and
Waverley Council were constantly arguing over. The Diggers had been
sold to make home units, so most of the punters had moved down to
The Rathouse in the North Corner, which was good value, except you
had to put up with poker machines and cigarette smoke and Les
wasn't a member. Les was a member of Hakoah, but mainly for the
choice food. The Bondi was all right in the daytime, but you wouldn't
go there at night unless you liked drinking elbow to elbow with
backpackers full of drink and western suburbs home-boys full of
attitude. Redwoods had been turned into an Internet cafe and most of
the other bars around Bondi were either too smoky or too trendy and charged an arm and a leg for a drink. The old Rex wasn't that bad and
the VB on tap was good, only there were too many blokes there either
Les or Billy had cuffed on different occasions and Les spent half the
night looking over his shoulder. Norton could get all the dramas he
needed working at the Kelly Club. And as Les only drank two or three
nights a week because of his job, he liked to be able to relax when he
did. So a bit of a sneak away from the crowds and the smoke was
needed. And in this respect, the Gull's Toriyoshi suited him admirably.
Ray was a good friend of Warren's and Les got on well with him as
did just about everybody else. The Gull always reminded Les of Peter
Fonda in Easy Rider. The same thoughtful, winsome face, the same
loose brown hair and steel-framed glasses and the same plausible
nature, tinged with polite curiosity. Since Les had poisoned the big
Russian swimmer there, Ray had done the Toriyoshi up. The cooking
was now done out the back, there was more seating and, being a local
waxhead, Ray had filled the walls with old Bondi surfing
memorabilia. You could sit out the front if you wanted, where there
was a well-stocked bottle shop two doors away, the Japanese staff
were friendly and Ray's food was always tasty and well presented and,
compared to some of the other feedbags around Bondi, extremely
reasonable. Being an actor and a scriptwriter, Ray also had a goodlooking
French girlfriend who was always good for a perv, a blonde
actress called Monique. And if she wasn't around, there always
seemed to be plenty of other girls hanging about. Because of his
involvement in the film game, Ray's Toriyoshi attracted much of the
Bondi and Sydney entertainment industry from TV, film, radio and
theatre; some of whom were all right and some of whom were
absolute pains in the arse. Les preferred to sit out the front with Ray's
old waxhead mates when they were around.
They were good blokes in their thirties who rode mini-mats, liked a
drink and a laugh and always had an anecdote about Bondi to relate.
Most of them had nicknames like Weasel, Snoopy, Hey Joe, ShortRound,
Butch van Bad Skull, Munoz, The Arm, Tounger, or whatever,
and all had this strange way of talking now and again in allegorical
metaphors tinged with biting sarcasm. Les was sitting out the frontone night having a cold one with Weasel and Hey Joe, and evidently
Weasel had been seen out on the weekend with a really ugly girl. 'Nnnyyhh,' said Hey Joe, 'I'm glad the chick you were out with
the other night didn't have a head on her like a kicked-in shitcan
anyway, the Wease.'
'Nnnyyhh,' replied Weasel. 'I'm glad you wouldn't crawl over
broken glass with your Morts out to stick it up her behind my back
anyway, the Joe.'
Nnnyyhh, thought Les. I'm glad you haven't, got me fucked if I
know what you're talking about anyway, the boys.
Naturally, being a writer and hanging out with the film industry
in beautiful downtown Bondi, the Gull had come up with a film
script. It was called Leaving Bondi. Thinking Les might be interested
and looking for investors, he showed Les the script and the synopsis
one night when it was quiet. The story was about an Australian
Vietnam veteran who elopes back to Australia with a Japanese girl
and was set in Bondi before they got rid of the old sewerage works
the murk - and started pumping all the shit out to sea beneath
the ocean floor. Her father is a boss in the Yakuza and comes looking
for his daughter. The Vietnam vet shoots the father and his
gangsters, then ends up in a massive shoot-out with the police and
the State Protection Unit before getting away with his girl through
the sewers of Bondi, finally escaping through the main sewerage
outlet under the golf links around Ben Buckler Point. There was waffle and moving dialogue and in the end you're left hanging, not
knowing whether they got away or drowned in several million litres
of shit.
The film was going to be shot around Bondi, Bondi Beach Public
School, the Toriyoshi and Ray's father's house in Clyde Street, Bondi.
Ray reckoned by cutting costs and using unknown actors he could
shoot the film for less than a million dollars. The Gull had called his
film company Murhe Productions. Les flicked through the script and
thought the the film company was aptly named and it was good the
movie was about sewers and such, because it was the most shithouse
thing he'd ever read. And figured anybody that would invest money
in a clunker like Leaving Bondi would have shit for brains. Oddly
enough, Ray had raised nearly all the money and was just $50,000
short of production. Les handed the Gull back his script, said he'd
take a rain check and got another beer.
One night Les was sitting out the front of the Toriyoshi with
Warren, Ray Tracy and Ray's French girlfriend Monique. Ron from
99FM was there with a Sydney disc jockey who raved on too much
for Norton's liking, and a local film director Les wasn't too keen on
either. Along with some lesbian film producer. Evidently they were
the main investors in the Gull's movie. Even Warren had sunk some
money into it.
The director was Max King, a humourless, narrow-eyed person
about forty with a hunched, bony build and a narrow, bony head
topped with short greying hair. He rarely smiled and always reminded
Les of a snake the way his head sunk between his shoulders and his
ditty eyes seemed to dart everywhere as if he was looking for a mouse
or a small bird to eat. He'd made a number of films. His biggest claim
to fame being an art film shot in Bali, which won a gong at some
obscure film festival in Europe before fading without trace. He'd alsobeen high up in the South Australian Film Corporation where he'd
produced several meat-pie dramas and telemovies. King had lived in
Bondi for over ten years, but before he moved to Sydney, Eddie said
King had been in the army reserve in Melbourne where he'd also done
community service for petty larceny. Because of his Balinese film
connection, King always liked to wear batik shirts; tonight's fashion
statement was black, brown and yellow.
The disc jockey was Nathan David. An average-sized, selfopinionated
bigot in his thirties with tinted hair and a squashy little
nose rumoured to have undergone plastic surgery. David originally
arrived in Sydney from Adelaide via Melbourne. He was single, loved
developers, hated environmentalists and was currently right up there
in the ratings giving Sydney's talkback kings a run for their money. So
far David hadn't been caught up in the cash-for-comment-keepingthe-greed-alive-scandal
rocking Sydney radio. And often enjoyed
referring to his opposition and anyone else who didn't share his views
as vile, rotten swine. Norton, however, after what he'd heard and read
in the papers, wouldn't have pissed on any of them, particularly
David. And often said so. But if he ever bumped into David at the
Toriyoshi, Les kept his opinions to himself. If only for Ray's sake.
The woman was Simone Mitchum. She had dark hair and dark
looks, which blended in with her all-black outfit, broken up by a
purple scarf and purple earrings. Simone lived in Dover Heights and
also came from Adelaide, where she'd worked on a couple of King's
movies with the South Australian Film Corporation. She wasn't
introduced to Norton as a lesbian. But just her mannerisms, and the
way she glared at Les for having the hide to perv on the same woman
at the table she was, told him so. Despite her abrasive manner, she
seemed to be fairly intelligent, and Les was curious why she, or
anybody else, would invest in a Z-grade wobbegong like Leaving Bondi. Warren, a mullhead working in an advertising agency, Les could
understand. But the others? Maybe they knew something he didn't?
The night Les was drinking there, David had just been berating
everybody about his rise in the latest radio survey; mainly because
he'd escaped the cash for comment inquiry. Now he was berating Les
about putting some money into Ray's movie. David was dissecting
Les from behind a pair of dark sunglasses he was wearing so no one
could recognise him while he was wearing a bright red T-shirt with
his radio station's logo across the front so no one could miss him.
'Well, come along, Les,' chirped David, in his familiar radio announcer's
voice. 'Ante up, my boy. This could be a great investment
for you:
'Sure. Come on board, man,' said Ron. 'It's a cool thing.'
'Yeah, why don't you? You miserable big prick,' said Warren. 'You've got plenty snookered away.' He gave the Gull a wink. 'You've been
leaching a fortune off me in rent for years. I wouldn't be surprised if
you had all my rent money buried somewhere in the backyard in a
shoe box,' he added, as a titter of mirth ran round the table.
Les looked at Warren impassively for a moment. 'Yeah, that'd be
right, Warren. Trying to kick you out but you won't go'd be more like
it. You greasy little bludger.'
The Gull, plausible as ever, seemed slightly taken aback by Les and
Warren's rapport. 'Well, hey. Like you know, Les,' he gestured politely. 'Nathan's got a point there, man. This movie could be big.'
Max King didn't bother looking up from the table. 'I like the
script,' he said assertively. His words hanging in the air, as if they were
impaled on an invisible wall, to emphasise his approval of the script
was all that was needed.
The Gull nodded to Les. 'Hey, he's right. It's a great script, man:
'A great script?' said Les. 'Turn it up, Ray. A heroin addict could
forge a better script than that. I read it. Remember?'
The Gull looked at Les for a moment. 'Not all of it.'
'Ohh why waste your time,' said Warren. 'Les'd rather put his hand
in a meat grinder than put it in his pocket.'
Another titter of laughter rang out round the table as everybody
got a chuckle out of Warren's remark except Norton.
Simone gave Monique another very heavy once up and down.
'Why don't we talk about something else,' she said.
'Yes. Why don't we,' agreed Max King, his ditty eyes flicking
sideways at Les, as if a non-film person like Norton shouldn't even
have been sitting with them in the first place.
Les fixed his eyes on the Gull for a moment. 'All right, Ray,' he said
evenly. 'I'll back your movie. How much did you say you needed the
other night? Fifty grand? Okay. You got it.'
For a moment it looked as if a nerve gas bomb had just gone off as
every face at the table froze and all eyes rivetted on Norton. 'What was that, Les?' blinked the Gull.
'I said, I'll put fifty grand into your movie'
'Are you fair dinkum?'said Warren.
'I'm always fair dinkum, Warren.' Les finished his beer and rose
from the table. 'Now if you people will excuse me, I have to go
There's a travel documentary about Kakadu on the ABC I wish to
tape. 'He nodded to the Gull. 'I'll have your fifty down here at the end
of the week, Ray. Goodnight all.' Les turned and walked home,
stopping briefly at Bates milk bar in Hall Street for a packet of CC's.
When Les got home, he knocked the top off a cold Eumundi Lager, took a swallow, then slipped a tape in the video recorder. Once
that was going, he went out into the backyard, sipped some more
beer and stared down at where he had all his loot buried next to the
garden shed. The Krugerrands had fallen in by accident so he
wouldn't miss any, and the arse appeared to be falling out of the gold
market so he'd be better off getting rid of them. Fifty grand was a lot
of money to waste on a meat-pie western. But it was nice to see the
looks on all their faces when he dropped his bombshell earlier, and it
would be even nicer to see the looks on their faces when Les Norton,
major investor, started hanging round the film set, a big cigar in
one hand and a set of worry beads in the other. Also, this would
consolidate his position at the Toriyoshi; the Gull would think the
sun shone out of Norton's arse now. And although Les couldn't
conceal a certain dislike for some of the poseurs and hangers-on in
the movie business parading around Bondi - Ray Tracy excluded they definitely attracted all the choice crumpet. A lot of whom were
friends of Monique's and liked to sip white wine and eat the fat-free
food at the Toriyoshi. For virtually a handful of coins Les could be
the next Sam Goldwyn. He could put a casting couch in the spare
bedroom. And even though the government had put the squeeze on
the old IOBA rort in the film game, there was still an attractive tax
break for investing in a meat-pie western, so he wouldn't lose that
much in the wash-up. On the other hand, there was always chance Leaving Bondi could get up. People might actually pay to gand see the lemon. Stranger things had happened. Norton finished
his bottle of beer and got the pinch bar out of the shed.
The next day Les saw Price, told him what he was up to and to,
keep it between the two of them. Price was only too delighted to
oblige, as well as cop a nice pile of shiny, bargain-basement
Krugerrands to add to his collection. In five minutes Les had his
money, and all nicely washed through a bookie so it looked like Les
had won it at the races. Five minutes later Les rang his accountant.
Norton's last accountant had moved to the Gold Coast so Les had a
new one. Geraldine Hardacre. A tall, coppery brunette who did
triathlons with her husband Ivor, an insurance investigator. Gerry
was one of Billy Dunne's in-laws on his wife's side, so she knew where
Les and the rest of them at the Kelly Club were coming from. She also
knew a lot of people herself and wasn't adverse to cutting corners and
going straight to the heart of the matter if need be. Geraldine quickly
got a prospectus on the movie and by the end of the week the Gull
had his money and Les had a fifty-thousand- dollar share investment
in a film by Murke Productions Pty Ltd titled Leaving Bondi.
This had all happened before Les went to Port Stephens with Eddie.
Since then, they'd both got back safe and sound, Price had slipped
Les another ten thousand for the effort, and life went on. Now it was
another Sunday night at the Kelly Club in late autumn. The club was
empty and Les was sitting in Price's office, wearing a char-grey shirt
tucked into a pair of black trousers, about to enjoy an afterwork
drink. Sitting on his left, Eddie and Billy were wearing leather
bomber jackets and dark trousers and deep in discussion about how
much chlorine goes in a swimming pool. Price was at his desk,
wearing a light green suit with a jade tie, and going over some betting slips with George Brennan. Overweight George was wrapped into a
dark blue suit with a blue tie; the suit slightly crumpled as usual.
Norton being temporarily left to his own devices was settled back,
sipping on a cold Fourex and surmising that all up, things weren't too
bad. They could have been better. But all up, they weren't too bad.
Digger and her cousin had certainly made headlines with 'their'
discovery of the submarine, and with the money rolling in, they were
able to leave for America so Brendon could have his eye operation.
Digger even sold her story to a woman's magazine. ANNE ZACCARIAH,
MY SECRET AGONY. SHARKS ATE MY FATHER WHILE MY COUSIN WENT
BLIND. Because she didn't like travelling to Sydney, Les had been driving
to Newcastle when he got the chance. Which sadly wasn't working out.
The porking was still sensational. But Digger wasn't the happiest drunk
in the world and her cooking would kill a brown dog. Besides that, Les
got the distinct feeling Digger was having it away. Not out of any
disrespect or lack of affection for Les, but Les had definitely turned her
into a mad raving case and having that bottled up inside her all those
years, she was making up for lost time. Why buy a book - even if it was
a good one -when you can join a library. Digger never let on, but Les
could tell. And it wasn't just the phone calls from old friends when he
was at her house; phone calls always taken in the other room. Of course
what Digger did when Les wasn't around was pretty much her business.
Not his. But Les wasn't all that keen on sharing Digger's sweet little
whatever with strangers. And now you could bet Digger was cutting a
swathe through the medical fraternity in Fort Worth, Texas, while
Brendon was recovering in hospital. So Les knew it was only a matter of
time before it would be the end of the affair. Oh well, thought Les. You
win some, you lose some. I guess I was just born to go through life
another broken-hearted clown, laughing on the outside, crying on the
inside. That's show biz. And talking about show biz, tomorrow was the
first day of filming for Leaving Bondi. He took another sip of beer and
felt a tap on his left shoulder. It was Billy Dunne.
'You're very quiet there, old mate,' he said.
'Eh? No, I was just thinking about something, Billy,' replied Les. 'You and Eddie were talking anyway.'
Eddie stretched his arms above his head and yawned. 'I know what
I'm thinking; he said. 'I'm thinking of going straight to bed when I
get home. I worked on the house all day today, pouring concrete. And
I'm rooted.'
'Hey, talking about work; said George Brennan, locking the safe. 'That lazy, loafing nephew of mine Kevin's got a part in a movie
tomorrow. They're shooting it at Bondi Beach public school while the
school holidays are on. He's a cop.'
'Kevin?' said Price. 'How could he do a day's work? They'd have to
take an X-ray first to see if he had one in him.'
'He'd make a good cop,' said Billy.
'Yeah,' chuckled Les. 'It runs in the family.'
'Hey, how come you haven't got a part in the movie, Tom Cruise?'
said George. 'It's being shot in your backyard. And you're an actor
and a model. Did your agent forget to ring you?'
Les brushed his fingernails lightly against his shirt then glanced at
them indifferently. 'It's funny you should say that George. Because I
just happen to have a share investment in that very same movie.'
'You what?'said George.
'I bought some shares in the movie,' replied Les. 'It's called Leaving Bondi.'
'Shit! You kept that quiet,' said Billy.
'Well,' drawled Les. 'I didn't want to start running around bignoting,
Billy. Just because I've become a major player in the
Australian film game.'
'Major player in the film game: Billy shook his head. 'Fuck off, will
you, Les.'
'How much did you stick into it?' asked Eddie.
'Enough:
George turned to Price. 'Can you believe this cunt? Sticking his
money into a movie.'
Price gestured with one hand. 'I don't know, George. Taking a
punt on an Aussie movie's not a bad idea.' He turned to Les. 'This
could turn out to be a very wise investment, old son.'
Les nodded. 'That's right. It could turn out to be another Crocodile
Dundee.'
'Crocodile Dundee,' scoffed George. 'I know one thing. You won't
be crying crocodile tears if you do your money. They'll hear you
howling the other side of Cape Barren lighthouse.'
'Hey, I'll be down Bondi tomorrow,' said Eddie. 'I got to see a
bloke about something. You reckon it'd be worth me hanging round
the movie set for a perv?'
'I don't know,' shrugged Les. 'But I'm going to have a look. I might
see you down there.'
'Okay. We'll have a coffee,' said Eddie.
Price changed the subject to something that had happened at the
club earlier in the night. Then they talked about something else. It
was the end of the week and everyone was feeling tired and looking
forward to a few days off. They drank and talked for another thirty
minutes or so then left. Driving home in the back of Price's new
Mercedes, Les was thinking. Yes. Things ain't that bad. I've just
earned a few Oxford Scholars tonight. My job definitely isn't the
Burma Railway. And I'm getting a lift home in an air-conditioned
Merc. Yes. Things could be a lot worse. Eddie dropped him off at his
door, Les said he'd see them all later and went inside.
Once more, Les had the house to himself. This time Warren was down the south coast at Ulladulla, in a weekender with a blonde
actress he'd met at the Toriyoshi. A blonde Les fancied. But
unfortunately Warren tap danced too fast for him. Les got out of his
work clothes and into his tracksuit pants and a T-shirt, made an
Ovaltine then walked out into the backyard and looked up at the
stars shining down on a crisp autumn night. He sipped his Ovaltine
and shook his head, finding it hard to believe how time went so fast.
It only seemed like a few days ago they were trying to get the money
together to make Leaving Bondi. Now they were actually filming it.
Les yawned and had a slight chuckle to himself. He'd got a postcard
from Neville Nizegy early in the week. From San Diego of all places.
It didn't say who it was from. But Les knew. I wonder what Nizegy
would think if he knew some of his money was going into an
Aussie movie? He'd probably be rapt. Naturally, Nizegy didn't leave a
forwarding address, so Les couldn't tell him. Les finished his
Ovaltine. Yawned again then went to bed. In ten minutes the big
Queenslander was snoring soundly.
By the time Les rose from his sleep-in, got cleaned up then climbed
into his blue tracksuit and trainers to walk down and get the paper, it
was ten o'clock. After throwing his dirty clothes in the washing
machine, before taking his own sweet time over poached eggs and
coffee, it was after eleven. Outside it wasn't too bad a day; mild, with
a few clouds around and a light nor'wester rustling through the few
trees in Cox Avenue. An excellent day for filming smiled Les, as he
flicked through the sports pages. Filming, I say filming my movie that is, boy.
By the time Les cleaned up in the kitchen and hung his washing
out on the Hills Hoist like any other good Bondi housewife, it was
getting on for twelve. Les had a glass of filtered water for the road,
locked the house up and headed for the film set.
Walking fairly briskly, Les went straight down O'Brien Street then
took a left into Gould, slowing down as he crossed Curlewis to wave
to a couple of girls he knew going past on ten-speeds. He crossed
Beach Road, finally stopping in Gould Street at a metal gate set into
the rusty cyclone-wire fence running along the back of Bondi Beach
Public School. Behind the metal gate, a set of concrete steps angled
down to the old schoolyard, the tar criss-crossed with white
markings to form a basketball court. A row of scrubby trees ran
below the cyclone-wire fence towards garners Avenue and on the
right a couple of tall pines and other trees stood in front of a grey
paling fence that separated the schoolyard from the flats in Beach
Road. On the left side of the schoolyard was a children's play station
flanked by two basketball hoops and across the playground, opposite
Les, was a two-storey block of classrooms, then the rest of the school
sprawled across to Campbell Parade. Joining the other interested
bystanders in Gould Street, Norton leant against the metal gate
and peered into the playground where the circus was well and truly
in town.
All over the schoolyard were actors and extras dressed in State
Protection Group or army uniforms. Walking amongst them, in a
grey dust coat with a holstered magnum on his hip, was the
armourer, keeping an eye on the M-16s, Heckler and Koch submachine
guns and Glock pistols the actors and extras were having a
great time playing with. Two make-up girls were bustling about,
wiping the actors' faces or whatever while two wardrobe girls were
busy double-checking their uniforms and another girl was walking
around taking polaroids. Through the sprawl, other film crew were
wandering around the playground, sucking on styrofoam cups of
coffee as they squawked into two-way radios. Some of the extras,
including George's nephew, were leaning up against the school block.
Others were seated around a hot water urn next to one of the
basketball hoops. While all this rattle was going on, another scene
of organised confusion was being enacted next to the children's
play station.
A camera was set up on a cherry picker and beneath it electricians,
carpenters, grips and various other film crew were bustling about
laying down tracks or securing things with grey gaffer tape. At the
epicentre of all this and looking every inch the uber-director was
Max King, wearing a red batik shirt and Ray Ban sunglasses. King was
staring morosely at the ground, his hand under his chin, in earnest
conversation with the cameraman and the first assistant director,
who was in earnest conversation with the soundman and the second
assistant director, who was in earnest conversation with the assistant
to the assistant assistant's whatever. Hovering in the background was the man with the clapper-board. He was in earnest conversation with
a girl carrying a stop-watch and a clipboard who was checking the
continuity. More film crew were coming and going and the dress was
everything from ferocious black to Mambo Surfie and King's batik
shirt. All topped with weird haircuts in every colour of the rainbow
and facial piercing. It was as if the inmates had taken over the asylum
and the inmates were waiting for Max King to rise majestically above
the mob, give the nod to the first assistant director who would give
the nod to the second assistant director who would then utter the
magic words.
'All right. Quiet everybody. First positions please.'
Les leant against the gate to watch all the sizzling action and
beautiful girls in the movie business. There was neither. Every girl on
the set would have got kicked off a ghost train and the whole scene
was about as exciting as watching an endless American gridiron
huddle. Les watched everyone on the set play hurry up and wait for a
while longer, then decided to walk down to Campbell Parade via
Warners Avenue and have a look in the front gate just in case
something might be happening there.
Through a line of trees behind the school fence in Warners
Avenue, Les could see all the film company trucks lined up along the
drive at the main entrance; wardrobe, make-up, generators, etc. The
crew and cast had their cars parked nearby and in front of the drive
was a grassy area about seventy metres square. Benches and tables
were set up on the grass and behind the benches and tables was a
dark blue catering van, its back nestled up near some scrubby trees
running behind the school fence in Campbell Parade. Les strolled
casually round the corner just as a 380 pulled up at a bus stop in
front of the fence. As he slowed down for the people getting off the
bus, Les noticed his left shoelace had come undone. He walked to the
other side of the bus stop then turned round and rested his foot on
the seat. Through the trees on his left, a flash of colour caught
Norton's eye. It was a thin, pale man with a shock of pink and yellow hair,
wearing a black T-shirt, greasy black jeans and an apron round his
waist. The man had come from a set of steps at the back of the
catering van and Les surmised he was the cook. He was carrying a
small tupperware container in one hand and a fork in the other, and
had his back to Les as he picked something up from the grass near
the steps. It was a couple of small, dried-up white dog turds. Les
watched from behind the trees as the cook carefully put the two turds
in the plastic container then clipped the lid on and disappeared back
inside the catering van. Les closed his eyes and shook his head for a
moment wondering what was going on. Les was still wondering what
was going on when he felt a light punch under his floating rib. It was
Eddie, wearing a black Balance tracksuit and matching trainers. 'Righto, Shifty. What are you up to?'
'Eddie,' replied Les. 'How are you mate?'
'Good. What's happening on the film set?'
'Not a great deal,' said Les. 'Hey Eddie, you're not going to believe
what I just saw.'
Les finished tying his shoelace and told Eddie what he'd seen,
pointing to the catering van on the other side of the trees. Eddie
seemed to think for a moment, a smile tugging at the corners of his
eyes.
'You reckon the cook was picking up dog shit? And putting it in a
tupperware container?'
'Yeah,' nodded Les. 'You could almost smell it. I wonder what he
was up to?'
'Buggered if I know,' said Eddie, thoughtfully. 'But I know how we
might be able to find out. Follow me over to my car, I'll show you
something. It's just round the corner.'
Les followed Eddie across to his maroon Calais which was angle
parked on the opposite side of Warners Avenue. Eddie opened the boot and took two aluminium binocular cases out of an overnight
bag. He opened the cases and handed Les a pair of black binoculars.
They were wider and heavier than normal, with green tinted lenses
and there was a switch built into the lens on the right with a tiny light
in front of it. Stamped across the top was CANON INIAGF STABILIZER
15x 451S.
'What are these?' asked Les.
'Image stabilizing binoculars,' replied Eddie. 'I just bought them.
You focus on what you want to look at. Then press that button and it
cuts out any movement.'
"Yeah?'
,That catering van's facing this way. Come on over the road and
we'll have a look from behind those trees. We might be able to see
what he's up to.'
Les had another look at the binoculars. 'Righto:
They crossed Warners Avenue, found a clear view of the catering
truck through the trees, then rested their arms on the metal fence and
raised the binoculars to their eyes. Les gave a double blink. The
catering van was a hundred metres away, but the binoculars were so
powerful, you would have thought you were inside it. There were
gas bottles behind another door on the right and a white laminex
counter at the front with a blue awning over it. Pink Hair was
chopping up broccoli behind the counter. Les pressed the image
stabilizer switch and could scarcely believe his eyes. Everything stood
perfectly still; there was absolutely no shaking at all. It was like
watching TV, only better.
Les could easily make out the cook's facial features now. Under the
pink hair, he had a lean, grainy face with a pointy nose and a long
pointy chin, where a silver stud glinted through a blonde goatee
beard. There was a dark-haired girl in another black T-shirt and
jeans, wiping over the tables on the grass, leaving the cook alone in
the kitchen. The cook finished what he was doing, had a quick look
around then reached under the counter and took out the tupperware
container. He removed the two white dog turds then very deftly sliced
them into six neat portions and placed them on a plate. Through the
binoculars, Les could see everything clear as crystal. Next, the cook
got a bottle of chocolate sauce from beneath the counter and poured
some over the portions of dog shit. While the sauce was sinking in,
the cook reached into a cabinet above the counter, got a packet of
shredded coconut and sprinkled it liberally over the pieces of sliced
dog shit. Satisfied, he put the plate to one side as Les put the
binoculars down and turned to Eddie.
'Did you just see that?'
Eddie had his binoculars down too. 'Did I ever. What a cunt.'
They raised the binoculars again and Les pushed the stabilizer
switch. A fat, orange blowfly drifted languidly into the catering truck
and landed on the counter. The cook kept his eyes on it then picked
up a plastic fly swat and carefully flattened the blowfly where it
landed. The blowfly had scarcely stopped kicking when the cook
descended on it with a small pair of scissors and quickly trimmed off
its wings and legs. He flicked them off the counter then got another
small tupperware container, opened it and dropped the blowfly
inside with several other trimmed up blowflies. The cook looked at
them for a moment before tipping the lot into a pot of bean casserole
simmering on the stove behind him. He gave the casserole a stir then
put the two tupperware containers into a dishwasher as his assistant
came in through the door on the right.
washed the car, and by the time he'd tidied up and farted around the
house the day was over. Les could have watched the news. But instead
he thought he might call into the Toriyoshi, say hello to the Gull and
congratulate him on the first day of filming. Les changed into a pair
of jeans and a grey Toriyoshi T-shirt Ray had given him, put his
gaberdine bomber jacket on and strolled down to Campbell Parade.
The Gull was on the phone, wearing a red Hawaiian shirt and jeans,
when Les arrived at the restaurant. Les gave him a wave through the
window, then bought two bottles of Stella Artois, placed them on a
table out the front and gave Ray a nod to let him know there was a
cool one waiting for him when he was ready. The Gull was out in a
couple of minutes.
'That was Monique,' he said, joining Les at the table. 'She can't
find her key.'
'She's a blonde,' winked Les. 'Give her a break.'
Ray couldn't help himself. He was absolutely beaming when he
picked up his beer. 'Well, what do you reckon, Les?' he said. 'Leaving
Bondi. It's a happening thing, baby.'
'It sure is, Ray. I came down today and had a look.
Congratulations, mate.' Les clinked his bottle against Ray's.
Ray clinked his back. 'Thanks Les. And thanks again for investing
your money in it.'
Les made a magnanimous gesture. 'Hey. What else could I do?'
Ray shook his head. 'I swear to God, Les. A lot of my blood, sweat
and tears went into that movie, man. And me nearly going over the
gap a couple of times.'
'Down and out in Gullsville.'
Ray nodded. 'Yep. Fat city. No soles in my shoes. And no strings on
my banjo. But not now, Les. The Gull's back in town.'
'Drinkin' TNT. And smokin' dynamite. Good luck to you.' Les
clinked the Gull's bottle again. 'Hey how come you're not doing the
catering on the movie, Ray? That would have been a nice little earn
for you.'
Ray shook his head. 'I couldn't be bothered making that many
pork balls, Les. I'm flat out here.'
'Fair enough. So who's doing the catering?'
'Kreative Katering,' replied Ray. 'Spelt with a K.'
Les snapped his fingers. 'I think I know the bloke who runs that. I
used to work with him at Pyrmont. Skinny nosed bloke with a skinny
chin. Wears a beard. Do you know him?'
'Sort of,' replied Ray.
'What's his name?'
'I'm not sure. But I can find out for you. I got a call sheet under
the counter, I'll get it.'
'That's all right, Ray. You don't have to.'
'Won't take me two minutes,' said Ray, rising from the table. 'Besides, you're a major investor.'
'Thanks, mate,' smiled Les. The Gull walked inside the restaurant,
Les had another swallow of beer and looked up at the night sky. Does
it always have to be this easy Boss? Honestly. Where's the challenge?
Where is the challenge?
Ray came back out with what looked like a small filmscript printed
on blue paper. He placed it on the table and flicked through the first
few pages. 'Here it is. Kreative Katering. Albert Knox, Proprietor.'
'That's him,' said Les. 'Knoxie. I must call in and say hello.'
Suddenly some people began to arrive, so Les finished the rest of
his beer. 'I'd better make a move, Ray. You're starting to get busy.' 'Hey. Stick around, Les. Have another beer.'
'No. I only called down to say hello. And to offer my
congratulations.' Les offered his hand. 'Good on you, Ray. You've
killed 'em.'
Ray shook Norton's hand. 'Thanks, Les. And thanks for coming
down. It's always great to see you, man.'
'You too, Ray. I might see you tomorrow.'
'See you then, Les.'
Norton got up and left, leaving Ray to look after his customers.
Back home, Les got another beer from the fridge and settled back
in front of the TV. Albert Knox. That shouldn't be too hard to write
on top of a cake box. Les slipped on a video Warren had brought
home from the advertising agency. Analyze This with Robert de Niro
and Billy Crystal. Les was still laughing when he went to bed. What's
a sandwich that ain't fattening? A half a sandwich. Beautiful. Just
beautiful. In ten minutes Norton was snoring like a baby. Tomorrow
was definitely going to be another day.
Les was out of bed by seven; feeling good and looking forward to
the day. Outside it was pleasant enough again; mild, a bit of an
offshore breeze and sunny. Les got cleaned up, had some coffee and a
mango smoothie then decided to get his exercise out of the way early.
He got back into his training gear again and did the Rose Bay Golf
Links, sit ups in the backyard ghastliness, same as the day before. By
the time Les got that over, scoffed some poached eggs and read the
paper, it was ten-thirty and the doorbell was ringing. It was Eddie,
wearing the same tracksuit as the day before, carrying a white cake
box in his hands, sealed with Sellotape.
'G'day, Eddie,' Les greeted him. 'Come on in.'
Eddie followed Les down the hallway into the kitchen. 'Did you
find out the bloke's name?'
'Yes. Albert Knox.'
'Good old Knoxie, eh. Well done, Les.' Eddie placed the cake box
on the kitchen table.
'So that's it.'
'Yep. That's it,' replied Eddie, looking proud of his work. 'One
exploding shit cake to go.'
Les gave the cake box a perusal. 'So how does it work?'
Eddie shrugged. 'It's mainly a lot of fucking around with electrical
tape. And I can tell you one thing, Les. I'm not over rapt in the smell
of my own shit.'
'Don't worry, Eddie. I've been on the wrong side of your farts
at work'
'But it's just a thundercracker from Chinatown with a shortened
fuse. A matchbox, matches and a mousetrap. The hard part's slowing
down the spring on the mousetrap.' Eddie looked at his watch. 'I'll show you how you do it one day back at my place. But believe me,
Les. These work a treat.'
'I'll take your word for it, mate.'
Eddie cursed. 'Bad luck I won't fuckin be there to see it go off.' 'You won't?'
'No, bugger it. I've got to go over the north side and I don't know
when I'll be back. But when you give it to the cook, hang around and
take some photos. I want to see them.' Eddie gave Les a wink. 'And
don't piss yourself when you see what happens.'
Les smiled back at Eddie. 'I'll try. But I can't promise you
anything.'
Eddie stayed while Les printed the cook's name on the cake box in
blue texta colour. He told Les the thing was safe and couldn't go off
unless you opened the lid. But keep it upright, don't drop it or knock
it around too much. Les promised to obey Eddie's instructions to
the letter.
Eddie drove off, leaving Les in the kitchen staring at the cake box.
What a weird bloke, thought Les, looking at the cook's name written
across the top. I wonder why he did that? Either he's dirty on the
world, or there's just some people on the set he wants to get at.
Maybe Max King. I wouldn't blame him there. I'll find out somehow
over the next few days. In the meantime, Albert's Karma at Kreative
Katering is going to katch up with him. Les looked at his watch. Now,
what would be the best time to deliver it? I reckon ... about one
o'clock. That gives me time to go to the bank, pay a few bills then get
to the set when they're all having lunch. That way, everybody will see
the cook get splattered and I can mingle in with the crowd. I'll use
the telephoto lens first for some action photos then get a few closeups.
The cook won't have a clue who it is, either. Les chuckled to
himself. And next day, me and Eddie'll send him a postcard. We called
in to see you. But you were shitfaced so we left. Love, Thelma and
Louise. Les changed into a pair of jeans, a green T-shirt and his Bugs
Bunny cap, got his credit cards and whatever else he needed and
drove up to Bondi Junction.
Everything went surprisingly easy. He had no trouble getting a
parking spot and the queues weren't long. He was back home in time
for a cup of coffee and a biscuit before going to the film set. That
done, Les picked up the cake box, slung his camera over his shoulder
and set off for Campbell Parade.
The big Queenslander was whistling cheerfully as he strolled past
the Toriyoshi and through the school gates. The two wardrobe girls
were standing near the gate in their multi-coloured clothes and dyed
hair. They'd just finished a joint and picked up on Norton's vibe.
'Hey. Someone's in a good mood,' said one, with cherry red hair
teased up around her head like a big red broccoli.
'On a day like this,' smiled Les, 'you'd have to be in a good mood.'
Her friend with jet black hair full of dark blue streaks and
coloured beads, noticed the cake box. 'Is it somebody's birthday?'
she asked.
'Yes. Albert the cook's,' replied Les. 'I baked this for him myself.' 'Oh,' said the dark-haired girl. 'He should like that.'
'Oh yeah,' smiled Norton. 'He'll get a bang out of this, I guarantee
it.' Les left them and walked towards the chairs and tables on the
grass. He was a little disappointed to find there weren't many people
around. One or two film crew, a couple of voyeurs, the ubiquitous
Japanese tourist armed with a video camera and the cook's dark haired
assistant, back wiping the tables. Still whistling cheerfully, Les
gave the Japanese tourist a smile and a cheeky bow of his head as he
went past, straight up to the girl wiping the tables.
'Excuse me, is Albert around?' he asked politely.
'Yeah,' replied the girl, pointing to the blue van. 'He's in the
kitchen.'
'What time are you serving lunch today?'
'One-thirty. They're behind with the shoot. So they're having a
late wrap.'
'Okay. Thank you.'
Les walked over to the van, tapped on the counter and placed the
cake box on it.
'Parcel for Albert Knox,' he called out.
'What?' A lean pink head appeared from behind a wall oven. 'Parcel for Albert Knox. You don't have to sign anything. See you
mate.'
Norton quickly turned and walked off, looking for somewhere to
hide while he waited for the cook to open the cake box. The cook,
however, was in one of those moods where he didn't have time to be
stuffed around. He saw the cake box with his name on top and tore it
straight open. Les had just got to the edge of the grass when he heard
a muffled explosion and a loud curse. Shit, that was bloody quick. Les
laughed and turned around to aim his camera. Next instant, there
was a deafening blast and the catering van disintegrated in a
spiralling ball of orange flames and a billowing cloud of thick black
smoke. Instinctively Les threw his arms across his face as the steps at
the rear of the catering van sailed over the school fence before
smashing into the back of the bus stop and pieces of metal, wood and
fibreglass rained down all over the front of the school, showering the
parked trucks and cars with burning debris. The cook, minus one
arm and half his face burnt away, was blown through the side
entrance at the right of the van, along with the fridge and parts of the
stove. Looking like a wobbly mess of charred meat in the remains of
his smouldering clothes, Knox was dead before he hit the ground. His
ears ringing like a burglar alarm Les tried to gather his senses as
people started running from everywhere. Some carrying fire
extinguishers, others had blankets, most were just startled people
from the film crew or bystanders wondering what had happened. By
rights, Les should have stopped and offered assistance. But something
told Norton the best place for him was out of there. Holding his
camera, Les pushed through the people coming in the school gate
and walked home as fast as he could.
Back at Chez Norton, Les poured himself a bourbon and ice and
with his ears still ringing from the explosion, flopped down in the
lounge room dumbfounded. He took a slug of bourbon and tried to
get his thoughts together. Jesus bloody Christ! What the fuck did
Eddie put in that cake box? Les had another sip of bourbon and
shook his head. No, he told himself. No way. There were definitely
two explosions. I know I heard the first one. It was just a bit of a
bang. Then that other fuckin thing went off. Bloody hell! Les sipped
some more bourbon, feeling it burn down his chest and into his
stomach. Maybe the thundercracker set something else off? Like
those Elgas tanks. No. Les shook his head again. I've heard tanks go.
It's a different sound. That was gelignite or some kind of explosive.
Les reflected into his glass and was forced to realise the only possible
explanation: somebody had let a bomb off in the catering van at the
same time he'd bowled up with his firecracker. But why? The cook
might have been a low bastard doing what he did. But it wasn't worth
killing him for. Was it? Christ! What a lousy, fuckin coincidence. I
don't believe it. Then a thought hit Les and it didn't warm his body
like the bourbon. It chilled him to the bone. What if somebody saw
me leave that parcel there? Saw me leave the parcel? About six bloody
people saw me. Those two weird-looking sheilas for a start. The
cook's assistant. That Jap with the camera. And anybody else that was
there. See me? Fuckin hell! They couldn't miss me. Les stared
anxiously at the phone. I think I'd better ring Eddie.
Eddie's mobile wasn't answering. Neither was his answering
service at home. That figures, thought Les. Lyndy's taken the kids
away for the school holidays so Eddie's up to something. Fuck it. Les
put the phone down and started to pace. The more he paced, the
more worried he got. Shit! I'm a good chance of getting a tug over
this, he told himself. A bloody good chance. He paced some more.
Yep. You can back it in. I'm going to get my collar felt. I know it. And
what am I going to tell them? Oh, it was only a cracker in a cake box,
officer. Yeah. Righto. Les paced some more. No. This is not good. Not good at all. I'd better make another phone call.
'Hello?'
'Yeah. Hello Price. It's Les.'
'Les. How are you, mate? What can I do for you?'
'Price, I think I'm in a bit of serious bother with the cops. I might
need a big favour off you later on tonight.'
Les didn't have to spell it out. 'I understand, Les. What time?'
asked Price.
'I'm not sure. But I'd reckon early tonight.'
'No worries, Les. I'll make the necessary arrangements. Ring me
here. I'll be home all night.'
'Thanks, Price. I appreciate it.'
'You do sound worried, Les.'
'I am:
'Don't be. Just settle back. And ring me when the time comes.' 'Thanks, Price. I'll get back to you.'
Les hung up and finished his drink. He didn't make another one.
Instead he switched on the kitchen radio just in time for the dramatic
news.
'One person was killed and several others injured in a bomb blast
at Bondi early this afternoon. The device, believed to be remote
controlled, was set to go off in a catering van on the set of a movie, Leaving Bondi, being filmed at Bondi Beach Public School.
Fortunately, the school was closed for the holidays so casualties were
kept to a minimum. However, a caterer was fatally injured in the blast
and several members of the film crew have been hospitalised. Police
have not released any names. But they wish to question a tall, solid
man, wearing a T-shirt and baseball cap, seen leaving Bondi Beach
Public School shortly after the bomb was detonated.'
'Fuckin hell!'
Les switched off the radio. He'd heard all he needed. A tall, solid
man in a baseball cap. That's me. And it'll only be a matter of time
before they put a name to the face. Yep. I'm off tap. Les stopped
pacing. Okay. No need to panic. But you can bet they'll search the
place when they get here. And there's things to be done.
Les got the jemmy from the shed and levered up the pile of wood
above where his loot was buried. He removed the slab of wood over
the hole then got a shovel and filled the hole with earth. After patting
the earth down solid, he dumped the pile of wood on top of it and
straightened the tarpaulin. It was going to be a bit of a pain in the
arse getting to his swag again, but at least now there was less chance
of the police finding it. Next item on the agenda was the boarder's
pot. Luckily, Warren had just harvested his plants from the backyard,
but he had about half a kilo of juicy heads squashed into a shoe box
under his bed. Les took the shoe box out to the kitchen, stood on a
chair, moved the manhole cover in the ceiling and hid it in the roof.
A thorough search would soon find it, but at least it was better than
just sitting under the bed. Warren's lousy fuckin pot, thought Les,
after he put the manhole cover back. As if I haven't got better things
to worry about than that. Like fuck-all chance of me getting bail for
starters. Les gathered his money, wallet, credit cards, passport and
anything else he could think of and put them in the pocket of his
bomber jacket. He didn't bother ringing his family or Billy Dunne. It
was no use alarming everybody for the time being. He'd contacted
Price. That was enough. Price would handle it from there. Les could
have taken it on the toe and got out of town. But that would only
make it look worse and they'd find him sooner or later. No. He had to
wear it. It was just plain bad luck. Les had another drink, then made
some more coffee and waited. The knock on the door came in the
early evening.
Les opened the front door to find two detectives standing there in
sports coats, and a uniform cop in overalls with a Jack Russell terrier
on a lead. Both detectives were about the same stocky build; one had
dark hair going bald, the other had brown hair cut close to his scalp.
The uniform cop was tall with a brown moustache. The dark-haired
cop had the warrant.
'Les Norton. Cox Avenue, Bondi?' said the dark-haired detective. 'That's me,' nodded Les.
'I'm Detective Caccano. This is Detective Tait and Sergeant
Plackett. We have a warrant to search your premises for explosives.'
Les stood back from the door. 'Go for your life: He turned to the cop
with the dog. 'You won't find nothing, mate, so try not to wreck the
place will you? There's a tool shed out the backyard too. It's unlocked.' 'Righto, mate,' said the uniform cop indifferently. 'Come on,
Oscar. Good boy.'
Les watched as Sergeant Plackett and his sniffer dog started
searching round his bedroom, then motioned to the two other cops. 'The lounge is through there. You want to sit down?'
'We'll follow you,' said Detective Caccano.
They went into the lounge room and sat down. Les on the lounge,
the two cops facing him on the loungechairs.
'You live here on your own?' asked Detective Caccano.
Les shook his head. 'Na I got a flatmate. A bloke called Warren
Edwards. He works for MM and B Advertising.!
'Where's he?' asked Detective Tait.
'Down the south coast with a girl. At Ulladulla. I don't know when
he'll be back. About Thursday, I think.'
Bob
'You work at the Kelly Club, don't you?' said Detective Tait. 'That's right,' answered Les.
'With a bloke called Billy Dunne.'
'Yeah. We work on the door.'
'Price Galese has gone very respectable these days,' said Detective
Caccano.
Les looked at the two detectives expressionlessly. 'I was under the
impression he always was.'
The two detectives looked expressionlessly back at Les as Sergeant Plackett and his dog gave the house a swift but thorough going-over.
The dog sniffed all over the lounge and kitchen, then they went out
into the backyard. Les offered the two detectives some coffee. They
declined. There was a modicum of chit-chat then Sergeant Plackett
came back into the lounge and shook his head.
'Nothing out there,' he said to the two detectives. He turned to Les. 'How do I get up in the roof?'
'There's a manhole cover in the kitchen. Above the sideboard next
to the fridge. The stepladder's in the shed.!
'I won't need it.'
Les watched the cop go into the kitchen then heard him push the
dog up through the manhole cover. The dog barked a couple of times
as Les heard it running about in the roof. Well, there goes Warren's
pot. Now they'll get me for supply. As well as murder, arson, and
whatever fuckin else they're going to charge me with. Fuck it,
cursed Les.
Les heard the manhole cover being replaced, then Sergeant
Plackett and his dog came back into the lounge room empty handed.
Sergeant Plackett shook his head. 'Nothing in there, either,' he
said. 'The place appears to be clean.'
'I had a feeling it would be,' said Detective Tait. 'What do you want me to do?'
'Go back to the yard. We'll give you a call if we need you again.'
Les had nearly fallen through the back of the lounge. He knew he
had to say something. Anything. Or his facial expressions would give
him away.
'If you don't mind me asking,' Les said to Sergeant Plackett, 'that's
a funny-looking police dog. I thought they were all German
Shepherds. Or Rottweilers.'
'Oscar?' replied Sergeant Plackett. 'Oscar's okay. Oscar used to be
with Customs. But he accidentally snorted a big pile of pure heroin
one night and nearly died from an overdose. He's been useless with
drugs ever since. Couldn't tell dope from donuts. But he's the best in
the business when it comes to explosives. Aren't you Oscar?' The dog
panted and smiled up at his handler. 'He's a good boy.' Sergeant
Plackett turned to the two detectives. 'Okay. I'll see you later.'
'Righto. Thanks for your help, Geoff,' said Detective Tait.
Les heard Sergeant Plackett and his dog leave and studied Caccano
and Tait pretty much the same way they were studying him. From his
dealings with police in the past, their attitude and body language told
him these two knew what they were doing. They hadn't carried on
with any great drama so far and they'd obviously done their
homework on him. They were probably mystified why Les would
want to set a bomb off on a film set. But by the company Les kept,
where he worked and his past form, it wouldn't have surprised them.
Up to this point, they'd been very low key. Now Les was waiting for
the penny to drop. Though Les had to admit, luck had certainly been
on his side so far. Detective Caccano spoke first.
'Well, I imagine you know what this is all about, Les?' he said
quietly.
Les made a small gesture with his hands. 'Not ... really. Maybe
you'd better fill me in.'
'An explosive device was set off on a film set in Bondi early this
afternoon,' continued Detective Caccano. 'In which one person was
killed and a number of other people were injured:
Les nodded. 'Yeah. I heard it on the news earlier.'
'You've been identified by at least five people leaving a parcel in the
catering canteen at the precise time of the blast,' said Detective Tait. 'You've been positively identified by the film's director,' Detective
Caccano flipped open his notebook. 'A Mr Max King.'
'And there's film of you leaving the parcel on the school's outdoor
security camera,' said Detective Caccano. 'Which is what Mr King was
able to make a positive identification from.'
There was a brief silence, then Detective Tait spoke. 'So what have
you got to say to all this, Les?'
Les studied the two detectives for a moment. 'What have I got to
say?' he replied. 'I don't quite know what to say at the moment. But I
imagine you'd like me to accompany you to the station. Where I could
be of further assistance with your inquiries?'
Detective Caccano half smiled. 'We certainly would.'
Les nodded to his bomber jacket on the lounge. 'I'll just get my
jacket.'
Les stood up and so did the two detectives. Detective Caccano
reached behind his sports coat.
,If you don't mind, Les,' he said easily. 'Your hands.'
'Yeah,' said Detective Tait. 'It's not that we don't trust you, Les. It's
just that we don't trust you.'
Les felt the handcuffs snap round his wrists and knew exactly
where he stood with Detectives Caccano and Tait. Two minutes later
he was in the back seat of a Holden heading for Waverley Police
Station.
Christ! This is getting to be a habit, Les fumed to himself, as the
units in Old South Head Road went past. How could anything fuck
up so bad? The bloody security camera. I didn't even think of that.
But why would Les have thought of that or anything else? It wasn't as
if he and Eddie had planned to murder anyone. All they had in mind
was more or less a harmless prank. Les would have told the
neighbourhood what they were up to. It was a hoot. Now this. Les
shook his head and put himself in the two detectives' shoes for a
moment. Les was their man all right. They were short on motive, but
they had a red hot suspect. And Les knew for sure the best evidence
was yet to come.
Waverley Police Station in Bronte Road looked exactly the same as
the last time Les was in there. And the time before that. Except there
was a platoon of journalists, photographers and TV cameras milling
round out the front. Les just had time to pull his jacket up over his
head as cameras started flashing and TV cameras began whirling.
The police drove down the back of the station and with the media
still howling like jackals in the background Les was bundled out of
the Holden and through a door into the station. The only view Les
got was his feet beneath his bomber jacket, going up the familiar
concrete stairs before he was led into the detectives' room.
'Christ! That was a lot of fun,' said Les, straightening his jacket
around him after he walked through the door.
'Yes. Our friends in the media,' said Detective Tait. 'They're all
right, aren't they.'
Les had a look around him. He was in the same room as he'd
been in last time he was at Waverley Police Station. The same dusty
window looking out over the surrounding flats, the same grey
metal filing cabinets against the walls. A skinny pot plant in the
corner opposite the vinyl chairs and desk. Even the wanted posters
on the walls hadn't seemed to change. The only difference was the
blue grey carpet looked new, there was a computer on the desk
with a TV and a VCR beneath and a video camera mounted on a
black metal tripod sat near the computer. Detective Tait motioned
Les to one of the seats. Les sat down as the two detectives loosened
their ties.
'All right. We won't fuck around, Les,' said Detective Caccano,
picking up a video and slipping it into the VCR. 'This is a copy
from the school security camera. Have a look and see what you
think.'
Les sat back as the video began rolling. It was grainy and jerky
with a time lapse. But there was no mistaking Les coming into view
and placing the cake box on the counter of the catering van. You
could even pick up the maniacal grin on Norton's face as he walked
back out of range. Next, there was a great flash of flame and smoke
as the van erupted and the chairs and tables closest to the van flew
into the others. Then the cook's body tumbled down the stairs
through the smoke. Detective Caccano wound it back a couple of
times more. Freeze framed it on Norton's grinning face, then
switched it off.
well, what do you think, Les?' asked Detective Tait. 'I'd say that's
you. I'd even hazard a guess and say you're still wearing the same
Tshirt.'
'Yes,' agreed Norton slowly. 'There is a certain resemblance.'
Detective Caccano flipped open his notebook. 'We've also got a
statement from a Ms Robyn Cornish, one of the make-up girls on the
movie. She said to you, quote, "Is it somebody's birthday?" And you
replied, quote, "Yes, Albert the cook's. I baked this for him myself.
He'll get a bang out of this. I guarantee it." This is also verified by a
statement from the other make-up girl,' the detective consulted his
notebook, 'a Ms Jacintha Gillings.'
'Albert the cook certainly got a bang out of your cake, Les, didn't
he?'said Detective Tait. 'I'd say half of Bondi did.'
Detective Caccano looked evenly at Norton. 'Do you wish to make
a statement, Les?'
Les stared at the handcuffs round his wrists. This was the evidence
he knew the two detectives had. And he was stuffed, six ways to
Saturday. Or as Billy Dunne liked to say, he had two chances: none
and slim. And Slim left town last week. But Les did have two chances.
He could tell the truth; not that it would do him much good. And he
could make a phone call.
Les sucked in some air. 'Okay. You're right. That is me.'
'Thanks, Les,' said Detective Tait. 'At least you're not playing us for
complete mugs.'
And I want to make a statement. You ain't gonna believe it. But I'll make it anyway. And it's the truth.'
'Okay, Les,' said Detective Caccano. 'Now as this is a very serious
charge, I'm going to record it on video.' The detective swivelled the
video camera on the tripod, spoke briefly into the recorder, then gave
Les the go-ahead.
Without implicating Eddie, Les told them everything that
happened. He said he made the device in the cake box, and he was
alone when he saw the cook tampering with the food. He left the
scene because he panicked and intended contacting the police the
following day, but the two detectives called round before he had the
chance. Detective Caccano switched off the video recorder, looked at
his partner, then turned to Les. Whether they saw the funny side of
the situation Les wasn't sure. It certainly didn't appear that way.
'You say you made the explosive device in the cake box?' said
Detective Tait.
'That's right. At home. In the shed out the back,' replied Les.
'And you bought the cracker from a friend in Chinatown?' said
Detective Caccano.
'That's right.'
'What was his name?'
'His name? Ahh, I'm not sure. He's just a bloke I know.'
'And the image stabilizing binoculars?' asked Detective Tait. 'Where are they now?'
'I loaned them to a bloke. To take to the races.'
'I see,' nodded Detective Tait. 'And the cake you used to put the
firecracker in? Where did you buy that?'
'I baked it at home. Out of a packet,' replied Les.
'And you went to all this trouble,' said Detective Caccano, 'because
you saw the cook putting flies in the stew. And dog shit in the
lamingtons:
'That's exactly right,' said Les. 'Hey, like I told you, I invested some
money in that movie, and I didn't like what I saw going on.'
'I suppose the money you invested in the movie,' said Detective
Tait, 'you won that at the races, too.'
'As a matter of fact I did.'
Detective Caccano looked at his partner. Then back at Norton. 'Okay, Les. That's one of the greatest loads of bullshit I've ever heard.
It's such a load of bullshit it could almost be fair dinkum. But ...'
Detective Caccano shook his head. 'So I am now officially charging
you Les. With murder. Five counts of malicious wounding. Malicious
damage. Endangering public safety.' He looked directly at Norton. 'That'll do for starters.!
'Okay,' conceded Les, nodding his head slowly. He'd played his ace.
Now it was up to his right bower. 'But bullshit or not, I've been straight
up with you blokes, haven't I? I haven't carried on like a cunt. And I
haven't treated you like mugs.'
'True,' agreed Detective Tait.
'So how about a phone call?'
Detective Tait pushed the phone across the table. 'Be my guest.'
Les picked up the receiver and dialed awkwardly with the
handcuffs still round his wrists. 'Hello Price. It's Les. Yeah. I'm in
Waverley Police Station. Okay. I'll put Detective Caccano on the line.'
Les handed the receiver to Detective Caccano. 'Just have a talk to
Price for a sec, will you?'
Detective Caccano picked up the phone. He didn't speak. He just
nodded his head a couple of times. 'All right, Mr Galese,' he said, then
hung up.
'What was that all about?' asked Detective Tait.
'I'm not sure,' replied his partner. 'But we'll know soon enough.'
A minute later the phone rang. Detective Caccano picked it up and
seemed to stiffen. All Les could hear was a muffled, 'Yes sir. Yes sir. No
sir.' Then Caccano handed the phone to Detective Tait. There was
another muffled, 'Yes sir. Yes sir. No sir,' before Detective Tait hung up.
Both detectives sat and stared quietly at Les. 'You sure know some
people, don't you, Les,' said Detective Caccano.
Les shook his head. 'Not really. But Price does.'
Detective Tait gave a mirthless smile. 'Yeah. Good old Price.'
Les gestured as best he could with the handcuffs on. 'Like I said,
he's a very respectable man. Always has been.'
Detective Caccano looked at Norton then undid the handcuffs. 'All
right, Les. We'll give you half a break. I'm still charging you. But we'll
give you conditional bail. Six days. That means you're back here next
Monday at nine-thirty to appear before a magistrate for a hearing.'
'Thanks.'
Detective Caccano tapped the table, then pointed at Les. 'You
surrender your passport. You report here every day between nine and
three. You don't leave the state. And if we so much as see you walk in
an exit door, we'll be all over you like flies on shit.'
'I got the picture,' nodded Les, rubbing his wrists.
'And when you front on Monday,' said Detective Tait, 'we'll oppose
bail The prosecutor will oppose bail. So as well as your lawyer, bring a toothbrush.'
'Fair enough.'
The two detectives then processed Les. He was fingerprinted, they
took a photo, and they took his passport. And in no uncertain terms,
they warned Les to obey to his bail conditions to the letter.
Everything was painstakingly typed up in quadruplicate then they
went over everything again with him so there was no mistake. Finally
Les was given his bail papers and a report card to bring with him
when he came to the station.
'Okay, Les,' said Detective Caccano. 'You're free to go.'
'For the time being,' added Detective Tait. 'And I'll be fair dinkum
with you, Les. We're filthy on having to watch you walk out of here.
We saw what was left of the cook. There could have been another
dozen like him.'
'Fair enough, fellahs,' said Les. He stood up and looked at the two
detectives. 'Look, I know how you feel. No one likes being
compromised. But this is just one big fuck-up. And that's the truth. I
just want a chance to see if I can sort the shitfight out.'
'It's a shitfight all right,' agreed Detective Caccano, emptily. 'See
you later Les.'
'Yeah, see you on Monday. And thanks again, anyway.' Les turned
and walked out of the detectives' room.
Fuckin hell, thought Les as he came down the steps to the front
desk. How heavy was that? Bloody Price. I wonder what strings he
pulled to get me out of there? Yeah. Only for six days. But the way it
was going, I'm bone lucky to get that. Then another thought struck
Les. Now I've got to get through all those miserable pricks out the
front. The last thing I want is my head plastered all over the front of
the papers and the late night news. Over at the front desk Les
recognised a familiar face. It was the old fat sergeant who farted in the
front seat of the wagon when Bob McKenna's daughter got pinched
for shoplifting. He wasn't a bad bloke if Les remembered right. The
sergeant was standing next to two other uniform cops who were
listening to some woman in a black dress having a beef about an AVO.
'Hey boss,' Les said to the sergeant. 'How can I get out the front without those bludgers swarming all over me?'
The old sergeant recognised Les and remembered what Les had
done the day they drove him back to the station. He showed a bit of
sympathy. 'Here,' he said, 'take this newspaper and read it walking out
backwards.'
'Read it walking out backwards?'
'Yeah. They'll think you're walking in. Christ! They're only
journalists. They're not rocket scientists.'
Les hesitated for a moment then took the Wentworth Courier.
'You're right. Thanks, sarge.'
This might just work, thought Les. They still don't know for sure
what I look like. Les opened the paper in front of him, and went out
through the door backwards. The media scrum was still pushing
and shoving each other all over the footpath like wild dogs round a
dead sheep. Les went round them cooler than Michael Jackson
moonwalking; straight into the front seat of a passing taxi. The taxi
driver had thick black hair, a moustache and a cap pulled down
around his ears.
'Where to mite?'
'Bondi. Cox Avenue. You know it?'
'Sure I do,' said the driver, setting the meter. 'No worries mite.'
Les settled back as the driver headed for Old South Head Road.
'Hey, what you think about the bomb in Bondi todiy mite?' said
the driver.
'What do I think about it?' Hello. Here we go, thought Les. 'I don't
think much about it at all. It's ... no good,' he answered.
'You know who done it. Don't you, mite?'
Les shook his head. 'No. Who done it?'
'The blackfellahs.'
'The what?'
'The bloody abos, mite.'
'The abos?'
'Yeah mite. Didn't you see the bloke on the tivee the other night.
Sayin' burn all the place down for the Olympic games. This the
start mite.'
Les looked at the driver. 'You could have something there. I never
thought of that'
'Hey. I know I'm right, mister. Make it hard for me to get the quid
now. Should send them all back where they come from, bastards.'
'Come from? They come from here,' said Les.
The cab driver shook his head. 'No. They come from New Guinea.'
'Fair dinkum?' said Les. 'I've lived here all my life and I never
knew that.'
'It's the truth, mite. Should send them all back. And Pauline Hanson with them.'
Les stared at the cab driver. 'She's not an abo.'
'No. She's a pom. And they's just as bad. Whinge, whinge, whinge
Allatime.'
'You know,' said Les. 'You might just have something there ...
mite.'
'Hey. I know what I'm talkin' bout, mite. Don't you worry.'
The taxi pulled up outside Chez Norton. Les paid the driver and
went inside. Fair dinkum. Somebody tell me I'm dreaming, thought
Les, as he shut the door behind him.
There were three messages on the answering machine. All from
Eddie. Les listened to the last one and the phone rang again. It
was Eddie.
'Les. I've been trying to ring you. I just heard all this weird shit on
the news. What the fuck's goin' on?'
'What's going on, Eddie,' answered Les. 'Some cunt put a bomb on
the film set. And it went off just as I delivered that cake box.'
'Fuckin hell! I don't believe it,' said Eddie. 'So what happened
to you?'
'What happened to me? I got pinched. The cops think I did it.
I just managed to get bail.'
'You're on bail? Ohh this is fuckin unbelievable.'
'You can believe it all right, Eddie,' said Les.
Les told Eddie what happened. The police coming round to his
house. Not believing what he told them and Price managing to
squeeze bail for him.
'And you didn't mention me, Les. You wore the lot.' Eddie was
impressed. 'Jesus, you're staunch, mate.'
'Yeah. Well, it's not much good the two of us getting nicked,' said
Les 'You're better off helping me out in the street.'
'Hey. Don't worry, Les. I'll be doing everything I can.'
'Thanks.'
'Look. It's not much good talking over the phone. How about I
call round your place tomorrow morning? Early. About eight o'clock.
That okay?'
'Yeah. Good as gold.'
'And don't worry. We'll sort this fuckin thing out somehow.'
'I hope so, Eddie. Because I'm in deep fuckin shit.'
Les hung up then thought he'd better ring Price.
'Les. How are you mate?' said Price. 'Eddie rang me earlier. And I
heard the news. What a gigantic balls up.'
'Unfortunately the cops don't seem to think so, Price. They've
charged me with everything but the Wanda Beach murders. I'd still
be up there if it wasn't for you. Thanks for that.'
'That's okay, Les. It's the least I could do.'
Les told Price what happened in the police station and how the
cops weren't too happy about letting him go.
'So they've got me on a pretty heavy pinch, Price. After seeing the
evidence, I don't suppose you can blame them.'
'Look, don't worry, Les,' said Price. 'We'll do our best to get you
bail on Monday. If not we'll appeal or some bloody thing. But we'll
work it out. My blokes are the best in the business.'
'Thanks.'
'In the meantime, just hang in. And we'll all get our heads together through the week and see what we can come up with.'
'Okay Price. I'll be in touch.'
'Do that, Les. See you mate.'
'Yeah. See you, Price. Thanks again.'
They'll do their best to get me bail. Great, thought Les. That cop
wasn't joking when he said bring a toothbrush on Monday. Les shook
his head in frustration. Why me? Why fuckin me? He went to the
bathroom, cleaned the fingerprint dye off his hands and tidied
himself up, then got a beer from the fridge and sat in the lounge
drinking it, but not enjoying it. About half way through his beer, Les
decided sitting around doing nothing wasn't going to help. He had
six lousy days to come up with something. So he'd better get his
finger out and start asking questions. And there was a very plausible
person not too far away who might know something. And if he
didn't, a bit of friendly persuasion might jog his memory.
Les was just about to walk out the door when the phone rang. It
was Warren, sounding very excited.
'Les. It's Warren. Are you there? Pick up.'
Les reached across for the receiver. 'Hello Warren. How's things?'
'How's things?' replied Warren. 'Christ! I saw the news earlier. I've
been trying to ring all night. What the fuck's going on? What
happened to the movie?'
'What's happened to the movie?' answered Les. 'It got blown up.'
'Did you do it?' said Warren bluntly.
'No. I didn't fuckin do it, Warren. It's a frame-up.'
'Bloody hell!'
'Warren, I'll give it to you straight,' said Les. 'I've been charged
with murder.'
'Murder?'
'Yeah, I'm out on bail till Monday. Then I go for a hearing and
they'll refuse bail when I front.'
'Bloody hell!'
'So it looks like you're going to have the house to yourself for a
while.'
'Fuck. This is unbelievable. I'd better come home now,' said Warren.
'No. Stay where you are,' replied Les. 'There's no need to spoil your
holiday'
'It's spoiled already,' answered Warren.
'Yeahh. But there's nothing you can do up here. Just be back by
Monday to take me to court.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yeah. Positive.'
'All right. I'll come home Saturday, Sunday morning at the latest.
You've got my mobile number. If you need me or whatever, call me.'
'Yeah. I'll do that, Warren.'
'Shit! This is unbelievable.'
'Yeah. Ain't it. I'll see you on the weekend, Woz.'
'All right. See you then, Les.'
Les hung up and looked at the phone. Good old Woz. I could
think of worse blokes to be looking after the place while I'm away.
But I don't need him around at the moment. If me and Eddie should
have to drag someone back here for a few answers, I think Warren
might get a little squeamish at the smell of burning flesh and blood
all over the walls. Les finished his beer. Now, where was I? Out the
door if I remember right.
The Toriyoshi was closed when Les got there. So was the bottle
shop. The front of the school was roped off with yellow police tape
and there was a wagon parked in the driveway. The film crew had
long packed up and gone; all that remained was the blackened shell
of the catering van sitting near the fence. Mmmhh, mused Norton.
Looks like the Gull's flown off. I reckon there's a chance he might be
having a drink. And I know where Ray likes a cool one when he's not
in his chicken shack. C.C.'s.
C.C.'s was a bar in Curlewis Street just near the TAB. It used to be
a wine bar, but a young ex-bookmaker had just taken over and
acquired a beer and spirits licence. It was family roomy, with a
coloured sign out the front featuring a blinking cocktail glass, and
inside was green carpet and green walls dotted with posters for Boags
Stout, Caffreys Irish Ale and Jim Beam. Several fans spun under a
latticework ceiling, and through an archway at the rear, bands
performed on a small stage. There were plenty of stools and tables
along the wall on the left as you walked in, the bar was on the right
and the windows near the front door opened onto the street to let the
smoke out. Les liked C.C.'s and used to pop in for a drink now and
again, if C.C.'s had got its spirit licence before Les settled in at the
Toriyoshi, he would have drunk there more often. The band had
stopped playing and about thirty casually dressed punters were
sitting or standing around having a drink when Les walked in the
front door. The Gull was perched on a stool at the bar, dressed in a
blue Hawaiian shirt, staring into a bourbon and coke like he wished
it was a deep, dark pool of water and he could have jumped in with a
Mack gearbox wired to his neck.
Les walked over and stood on Ray's right. 'Nnnyyhhh. So what's
happening the Gull? I'm glad you're face isn't looking like a sixmonthold
passionfruit, anyway.'
Ray looked up and gave Norton a heavy double-blink from behind
his steel framed glasses. 'Les? What are you? I mean
'You mean, what am I doing here, Ray?' replied Les. 'I got bail.
That's what I'm doing here, Ray.'
'You did? I mean. I heard on the news ... Hey, what do I know
about the news? That's good, Les.'
'Yes. It is. But you don't look too good, Ray me old. What's the
matter?'
'What's the matter?' The Gull took a sip of bourbon then shook
his head and went back to staring into his glass. 'The police don't
know if somebody's going to plant another bomb on the set so
they've stopped the shoot. Nearly everyone on the set's getting
trauma counselling after seeing what was left of the cook. The rest
got hit by flying debris. Max has pulled the pin. Simone's pulled the
pin. The whole gig's over, man. Finished.'
'Finished?' said Les.
'Yeah. It couldn't sink any further if they buried it at sea. And I'm
sunk with it.'
'Back to Gullsville, Ray.'
Ray nodded. 'Yeah. Not a pot to piss in. Or a window to throw it out.'
'Or a feather to fly with,' suggested Les.
'Right on, baby.'
Ray had another mouthful of bourbon. Les caught the eye of a
blonde barmaid in a white top and ordered a bourbon and unleaded for himself.
'Well so much for Leaving Bondi, Ray,' said Les, raising his glass. 'It
didn't even get on the 380.'
Ray shook his head. 'I don't even want to know about it, man. It's
turned out a complete bummer.'
'What about my lazy fifty, Ray? I imagine that left Bondi all right.
Never to return.'
'It might be covered by insurance, Les.'
'Yeah.' Les had a sip of bourbon. 'Look, Ray, no matter what you're
thinking, I didn't set the bomb off.'
'Hey Les, that didn't even enter my head man,' the Gull assured
Norton.
'But the cops think I did. And I'm in deep shit. So I need some
information, Ray.'
'Sure Les. How can I help?'
'I need the Tom Thumb on that cook. Albert Knox. What do you
know about him?'
'What do I know about him?' Ray blinked helplessly behind his
glasses. 'Shit Les. I don't know that much about him at all'
After being grilled at Waverley Police Station for hours in a pair of
handcuffs, Norton wasn't wearing his happy hat. 'Well you must
know some fuckin thing, Ray,' he said. 'Christ! You knew his name
when I asked about him before. You're both in the fuckin food game.'
'Okay. Okay. I'm with you, man.' Ray thought for a second. 'All
right. He got the catering job on the movie off his own bat. I didn't
A anything for him there. He ... he lives ... I mean, he lived in
Darlinghurst. He shared a flat there with some guys.'
'Darlinghurst?'
'Yeah. I heard he was into some weird gay scene.'
'Weird gay scene?' said Les.
Ray nodded. 'Yeah. He's bi. I know that. Was. Whatever.'
'So Albert was AC/DC was he?'
'Yeah. Bowled underarm. Look, the bloke you should talk to is
Brett Rittosa.'
'Brett Rittosa? Who's he?'
'Brett and Albert used to be partners in a restaurant at Glebe. The
word is, Albert ripped Brett off for a lot of money.'
'Did he now? That's interesting. So where do I find this Brett
Rittosa rooster?'
'In rooster territory, Les,' smiled Ray. 'He runs a takeaway breakfast
kitchen in Bondi Junction. Near the entrance to the railway station at
the back of the mall. It's called Brett's Brekky'
'Brett's Brekky. I might have seen it.'
'Yeah. He does sausage sandwiches. BLTs. Coffee, whatever. For
people on their way to work. It's only a small business. He doesn't
make a lot of money.'
Les had a swallow of bourbon and looked at the Gull over his
glass. 'What time's he open?'
'Six o'clock in the morning. He closes about eleven.'
Les had a think for a moment as the band came back on. 'All right.
Thanks Ray,' he said, finishing his drink. 'That's a start. I'll go and see
him first thing in the morning.'
'Okay. And Brett's not a bad bloke either. He's done it tough.'
'Ain't we all,' Les looked directly at the Gull for a moment. 'Hey
Ray. All jokes aside, who do you think did it? You got any ideas?'
Ray shook his head despondently. 'Les, I haven't got a clue, man. I still can't believe it's happened, to be honest. The karma on that set
was beautiful. Just perfect. Now this.' Ray shook his head again. 'All I
can say is, that Knox cat must've been toting some heavy vibes, man.'
'Right,' nodded Les. 'That definitely makes sense, Ray. Oh, have
you heard from Max King and the rest of them?'
'No. Max had split from the set when I went round. The others
haven't called me yet. I can't even find my business partner.'
'Okay. Well, I'll see you, Ray.'
'Yeah. See you, Les.' Ray stared back into his bourbon as Les
stepped round the other drinkers in C.C.'s and out the door.
Back home, Les had a shower then changed into a clean white
T-shirt and a pair of shorts. He got a beer from the fridge and took it
into the lounge room to sit and have a quiet think. Unexpectedly, he
felt dog tired. Instead of his mind racing at a thousand miles an hour,
it was almost blank. All Les could think was, one minute you're up
there laughing your head off and life's a bowl of cherries, next thing
it's the absolute bloody pits. He ran his eyes around the house at all
the creature comforts he enjoyed -- along with Warren -- and how
you take things for granted. Now in six short days he could lose the
lot. Along with his freedom for probably the rest of his life. And this
time he hadn't done anything. Les looked at the bar and all the
bottles of choice booze sitting there. An idea would be to get pissed
out of his brain and blot everything out. Then climb up in the roof,
get Warren's pot and stone himself into the netherworld with the
stereo blasting. Instead, Les finished his beer and went to bed. He
intended being up nice and early in the morning and hitting the
around running. He slipped a Steely Dan CD into the stereo in his
bedroom, lay back and closed his eyes. By the time 'Aja' had cut out,
Norton was in a deep, dark sleep.
Les was out of bed around six. Outside it was cold and the previous
day's breeze had turned to a biting sou'westerly. He made some tea
and sipped it over a toasted sandwich while he listened to the news.
The bombing was the lead story and Norton's name was mentioned;
Les finished his sandwich and couldn't wait to read about it in the
papers. He got into a pair of jeans, black desert boots and a black
leather jacket and drove up to Bondi Junction. The traffic was light
and he had no trouble finding a parking spot in Oxford Street
around from Newland. He locked the car and walked across to
the mall.
Brett's Brekky was a white kiosk with a shutter front and matching
awning, in the middle of the walkway near the Grafton Street entrance
to the railway station. Les stood back amongst the people hurrying for
the trains and checked out the owner and his female assistant. He was
lean, with a grainy face and brown hair receding in the front, and had
that look of tired humour in his eyes people get after working all their
life to get nowhere before finally accepting what life has thrown up.
He was wearing white jeans and a white T-shirt with a blue bib and!
brace and a butcher's apron tied in the front. His dark-haired helper!
was wearing the same. The owner was cooking food on a small stove!
next to a coffee urn while the girl was buttering toast; there was one!
customer. A metal step led up to the back door. Les walked over and knocked lightly on the side of the kiosk.
'Are you Brett Rittosa?' he asked.
'Yeah, that's me,' replied the proprietor, glancing up from a frypan
full of sausages. 'I suppose you're from the taxation department?'
'No,' answered Les. 'Quite the opposite. In fact I'd like to give you
some money.'
'What?' Brett looked up again. 'Yeah that'd be right.'
'Do these look all right?' Les flashed a roll of hundred-dollar bills.
Brett looked at them and his thin mouth filled with saliva. 'They
sure do, mate.'
'How about making me a flat white with two sugars. And I'll see
you on one of those seats in the mall.'
'I'll be there in two minutes.'
Les walked up to the mall, found a wire seat, then sat down and
made himself comfortable. Brett was along shortly with a carton of
coffee and a can of Coke. He handed Les his coffee and sat down next
to him. Les offered his hand.
'I'm Les.'
Brett nodded and shook Norton's hand. 'Les Norton. I've seen you
around.'
'I live in Bondi. And I work up the Cross.'
'The Kelly Club. Price Galese.'
'That's me.'
Brett took a mouthful of Coke and smiled. 'So Les. I imagine this
about the unfortunate demise of Albert Knox.'
'You're right on the ball, Brett,' Les smiled back, then tucked a
hundred-dollar bill into the top of Brett's apron. 'And you can have
that for starters.'
'Thanks. That'll come in handy, I can tell you.'
Les removed the top of his carton and took a sip. The coffee was
surprisingly good. 'All right Brett, I'll get straight to the point. You
were partners in a restaurant with Albert Knox. Tell me all about
him. Anything.'
Brett looked directly at Les. 'He was a cunt. How's that for starters?'
'Fair enough,' said Les.
'He ripped people off. Dope dealers. Women. Old ladies. Me.
Anybody.' Brett shook his head. 'Somehow he managed to keep
getting away with it. Up until now.'
'What did he do with all the money?'
'Shoved most of it up his nose.'
'Into the sentimental bloke, eh. That figures. Was he dealing?'
Brett nodded over his can of Coca-Cola. 'Yeah. Not in a big way.
Mainly to feed his habit.'
'Did he have many friends?'
'Friends? I'll put it this way, Les, I wouldn't like to be selling
sausage sandwiches at his funeral.' Brett swallowed some more Coke.
'He used to hang with some strange people though. Sort of heavy. In
a weird kind of way.'
'What? Dope dealers?'
'Probably. But weird.'
'Gays?' said Les. 'I heard Albert sat on both sides of the fence.'
Brett laughed. 'Albert'd be in anything. No. These people were into
Wicca.'
'Wicca? What the fuck's that?'
'Witchcraft. Spells, rituals, all that sort of shit.'
'Albert of the occult,' said Les, taking another mouthful of coffee.
'The plot certainly thickens.'
'He had a place in the Blue Mountains. He used to go there and
write poetry and stuff. I went up there a couple of times. But he'd
never let me stay overnight. Or have a good look round the house. I
thought that was a bit odd, seeing I was his business partner.'
'Whereabouts in the Blue Mountains, Brett? Do you know the
address?'
Brett shook his head. 'I can't remember. But it was in Medlow
Bath and it had a red gate. And a blue letter box. And there was a big red gum out the front, too.'
'When you say had a place in the Blue Mountains, has he still got it?'
'Oh yeah,' replied Brett. 'He'd never let that go. He has people stay
there while he's in Sydney. You know, boarders, some of his weird
friends, whatever.'
'Uh huh.'
Brett finished his Coca-Cola about the same time Les drained his
coffee.
'Well, Les, there's not much more I can tell you,' said Brett. 'And I'd better get back to the kiosk. Michalina only knows about five words
of English.'
'Okay,' said Les, getting to his feet. 'You've been a big help though.
Here.' Les stuck another two hundred dollars in Brett's apron.
'Shit! Thanks for that, Les.' Brett offered his hand again. 'If there's
anything else I can do. You know where to find me.'
'Okay. Thanks Brett.'
'Call in anyway. I'll shout you a coffee.'
'I might do that, Brett. It's bloody good coffee.' Les turned to walk
away. 'Hey Brett. One more thing?'
'Sure.'
'Where was Albert from? Sydney?'
Brett shook his head. 'Adelaide.'
Les watched Brett walk back to the kiosk, then dropped his empty
coffee carton in a garbage bin. He bought the morning paper and
headed for Bondi.
Back home, Les had a glass of water and flicked through the paper.
The first three pages were headlined bomb outrage at school.
killing on film set. ten people injured. Here we go, thought Les. But
it could have been worse.
The photo of him being driven into Waverley Police Station gave
nothing away. He'd managed to get his jacket up over his head, so
they could have had Elvis in the car for all anybody would have
known. And apart from Knox's assistant, the injuries weren't too bad and some of the film crew were probably hitting the workers'
compensation trail, seeing that the film shoot was finished. Plus they
had him down as Les Norton, a waiter from Kings Cross. That old Sergeant was right, mused Les, going over it again before flicking to
the sports pages. You definitely don't have to be a brain surgeon to
get a job on a newspaper. Les was reading about a disappearing primal
donna rugby league player when the doorbell rang. It was Eddie.
'Shit Les. What can I say, mate?' Eddie waved his newspaper around as Les closed the front door and they walked down to the kitchen.
'We've managed to make the headlines again, Eddie,' said Les.
'It could be worse, though. At least I'm Les, the inoffensive waiter.
Not Les, the thug gangster doorman.'
'Yeah. It's still a fuckin heavy pinch they've got you on mate.'
'Yeah,' agreed Les. 'It sure is. And if I said I wasn't worried, I'd be a
liar. And a dill.'
Les told Eddie everything that happened. From the bomb going
off. Cleaning out the house. To the police coming round and
charging him. Then what Ray Tracy had told him and his meeting
with Brett Rittosa earlier.
'So it looks like our mate the cook was a shifty no-good prick,' said
Les. 'You almost had to queue up to hate him.'
Eddie shook his head. 'I wish we'd never gone near that silly fuckin
film set.'
'You and me both, mate,' agreed Les. 'What about you, Eddie?
Have you found out anything?'
'No. I didn't get back home till late last night. And I only got up a
while ago. But George'll be ringing you soon. Evidently he's on to
something.'
At that instant the phone rang in the lounge room.
'This'll be him now,' said Eddie.
It was Billy Dunne. 'Les, how are you mate? You okay?'
'As good as I can be under the circumstances, thanks Billy,' answered Les.
'Eddie told me what's happened. Fuckin hell! I can't believe this.'
'It's true, Billy. Eddie's here now. Have you got this morning's
paper?'
'Yeah. At least you can't see your head. But everybody around the
traps is going to know who it is.'
'Yeah,' admitted Les. 'Great, ain't it.'
'I've spoken to Price and we're all on the case. I've got Big Danny
to fill in for you at work.'
'Thanks, Billy.'
'And I reckon you should be sweet on Monday.'
Despite his workmate's effort, Les didn't detect a great deal of
confidence in Billy's voice. 'Yeah. We'll see what happens, mate.'
'Look, I'll leave you with Eddie. And I'll call round this afternoon.
You be home?'
'Probably.'
'Okay. Well, I'll see you then. Take care, mate.'
'Yeah. Thanks Billy.' Les hung up and walked back into the
kitchen. 'That was Billy. He's going to call over this afternoon.'
Eddie nodded. 'I rang him earlier.'
Les was going to say something when the phone rang again. 'This
might be George.' It was.
'Hello Les. How are you goin', mate?'
'I'm hanging in, George,' replied Les. 'Hangin' in.'
'Good on you son.' Les and George might have constantly bagged and poked shit at each other at work, but when it came down to
business, that was all forgotten. 'Price told me what's going on Les.
I can't believe your bad luck.'
'I suppose you saw the papers this morning George?' said Les.
'Yeah, the pricks. At least they didn't get a decent photo of you.
And I always said you'd make a good waiter.'
'Thanks George,' laughed Les.
'Okay. I'll tell you what's going on. Evidently they love a bit of
scandal and rumour, the show biz mob, and while he was hanging
around that movie set, Kevin picked up a bit of gossip.'
'Go on, George.'
'That cook who got blown up. His name's Albert Knox. He was a
small-time coke dealer.'
'I already knew that.'
'He'd also been in a bit of strife with the law,' said George.
'Dealing dope?'
'No. You remember about a year ago, a bloke got murdered in the
Blue Mountains and they found his body on a walking trail. He was a
barrister, had a wife and kids. And it turned out he was a mad raving
poof on the side.'
'Vaguely, George.'
'Well, they never found the murderer. But Knox had tried to
blackmail the barrister. He was going to out him and a couple of his
mates. The cops charged Knox with extortion, but between the bloke
getting himself murdered and whatever, Knox beat it.'
'Yeah. According to a bloke I've been talking to, Knox was a bit of
a shifty,' said Les. 'Something like that'd be right up his alley.'
'There was also this old bird in the Blue Mountains,' continued
George. 'Kicked the bucket and left all this money and real estate in a
disputed will. Knox was half pie pally with the old girl and forged her
name on a letter giving him part of the estate. He got sprung. But
somehow or other he beat that, too. So besides being one step in
front of the gendarmes, Knox had quite a few people offside.'
'Christ! You'd think those two coppers'd know all this,' said Les.
'They probably do,' replied George. 'But unfortunately they've got
your head on the block, Les.'
'Yeah. Terrific'
'Anyway, Kevin's calling over this afternoon. He might've found
out something else. And me and Price have got our ears to the
ground.'
'That's good. Well, thanks for your help, George. I'll keep in touch.'
'No worries. Look after yourself, big fellah.'
Les hung up and walked back into the kitchen. 'George's nephew
found out a couple of interesting things.' Les told Eddie what George
had said over the phone.
'Fuck. It looks like our mate Knox barred nothing when it came to
hustling a quid,' said Eddie.
'Yeah,' agreed Les. 'He'd steal the filling off a shit sandwich and
leave you with the dry bread.'
Les and Eddie sat silently staring into space for a while before
Eddie spoke.
'Well, what do you think, Les?' he asked.
'What do I think?' shrugged Les. 'I'm fucked if I know, Eddie.
Anybody could have murdered that prick Knox. Coke dealers he'd ripped off. People he'd tried to blackmail. That old girl's relatives in
case he's still disputing the will. His ex-partner in the restaurant. Witches, warlocks, whatever.'
'Not counting punters who didn't like his nouveau cuisine,' said Eddie.
'Yeah. I forgot about them too,' said Les. 'Christ! It's a cast of
thousands.'
'So what are we going to do?'
'What are we going to do?' Les looked at Eddie for a moment. 'I
know what I'm going to do. I'm going to take a trip to the the Blue
Mountains.'
'The Blue Mountains? What the fuck do you want to go there for?'
'I'm going to see if I can find Knox's house. There's definitely a Blue Mountains connection to this, Eddie. And if I can get into his
house. I reckon I might find a clue.'
'Clue?' said Eddie. 'Turn it up Les. Who do you think you are? Cliff Hardy?'Well, I may as well be sniffing around up there, Eddie, as walking around Bondi with every cunt pointing at me behind my back
saying, look, there's the bloke that set the bomb off on the film set.'
'Yeah. I suppose you've got a point,' agreed Eddie.
'I know I've got nothing to lose,' said Les. 'I can punch the bundy
at Waverley Police Station on the way up. Stay the night. And be back §
in time to bundy on again Thursday. And you can keep sniffing
around down here.'
'Fair enough,' agreed Eddie. 'When are you going to leave?'
Les looked at his watch. 'By the time I root around here and pack
my swag, a couple of hours. I'll get there in time for a late lunch.'
'You know where you're gonna stay?'
'Haven't the foggiest,' shrugged Les. 'First decent hotel I come to in
Medlow Bath, I suppose.'
Eddie gave Les a look of grudging approval and got to his feet. 'All
right. Well, I'll get cracking and see what I can dig up. And I'll see you
when you get back. If you need me, give me a call. I'll be straight up.'
'Thanks mate. I will.'
Les saw Eddie to the door, waved him off then walked back out the
kitchen. He made a cup of coffee and as he was sipping it thought of
something the Gull had told him earlier. Les looked at his watch
again. Yeah. She'd be at work now for sure. He took his coffee into the
lounge room and picked up the phone.
'Geraldine Hardacre, accountant.'
'Hello Gerry. It's Les Norton.'
'Les?' replied his accountant. 'How are you?'
'Oh. Okay Gerry, I suppose.'
'That's not you in this morning's paper is it Les? Surely?'
'Yeah. That's me all right,' admitted Les.
'Good lord! What's the world coming to?'
'Well I can tell you now, Gerry, it's not what it seems.'
'I didn't think so. I know you're a pretty willing lot at the Kelly
Club, but I didn't think you went around blowing up movie sets.'
'We don't. Especially after one of us has shoved fifty grand into the
bloody thing.'
'Yes. That could be looking a bit shaky at this stage. I'm sorry to say.'
'Great,' said Les. Anyway, that's the least of my worries at the
moment, Gerry. I'm wondering if you could do me a favour?'
'I'll certainly do what I can, Les.'
'Could you ring Ivor and find out if anybody's taken any ...
special sort of an insurance policy out on that movie?'
'I can do that for you, Les. He's busy this morning. But if you ring! me back late this afternoon he should know something. Say about
four-thirty.'
'Thanks, Gerry. I'll ring you then.'
'Bye Les.'
Les hung up, sipped his coffee and looked at the phone, shaking his head. That's something else we didn't think of. An insurance scam. Add'
that to the list of suspects. Christ! Forget Cliff Hardy. This is more like Agatha fuckin Christie. Les took his coffee back out to the kitchen and
glanced at his photo on the front page of the paper again. Then
another thought struck him, giving the big red-headed Queenslander
even less joy. Somewhere out there, someone who couldn't believe their
luck was having a good laugh at his expense. They didn't even need any
luck. All they had to do was hang in and by Monday they were home
and hosed. Les threw the paper in the garbage, finished his coffee and
started packing for a quick trip to the Blue Mountains. I wonder what
the weather's going to be like up there, he mused. Les had a look out
the front window. The sou'wester had picked up and it was starting to rain. Cold and wet. Better toss in my GAP anorak. An hour later Les
had packed everything he thought he'd need from warm socks to a pair
of binoculars and a torch. He locked the house, wished himself luck
and drove up to Waverley Police Station.
Signing his report card was pretty much a formality. There were
no journalists or TV cameras around and Les was more than likely
'list one of a host of villains forced to report when told. A grizzled
desk sergeant processed him and as soon as he got that out of the
way, Les headed for Parramatta Road and the M4, stopping briefly at
Camperdown to fill up with petrol.
The rain increased and so did the traffic along Parramatta Road
till eventually Les found the entrance to the M4 at Strathfield. He still
wasn't too sure where he was going. According to his roadmap, get to
the other side of Penrith and climb west. A set of tailgates appeared
out of the gloom. Les couldn't see how much it was, so he impatiently
flung whatever change he had in the basket and quickly wound the
window up. The light turned green and he continued on his way to
the steady beat of the windscreen wipers and the rain hitting the
roof. The traffic was slow and heavy. Trucks and prime movers hissed
by leaving plumes of road water in their wake and every vehicle had
its headlights on. Another truck went past spraying water everywhere
as the FM station quietly playing in Norton's Berlina pumped out
another pop record. Les caught his eye in the rear-vision mirror and
shook his head. You know what I am, he told himself. An idiot. A
complete bloody idiot. I'm driving somewhere in the pissing rain, to
find a house with a red fence and a blue letter box. With a fuckin
gum tree out the front. Then if by some remote chance I happen to
find it, what do I do? Knock on the door and say hello, do you mind
if I take a stroll around, I'm looking for some evidence in a murder.
Unbelievable. The traffic ground on and the radio played another
pop song. Ahh fuck it, thought Les, as he crossed the Nepean River. I may as well have some ad-free music on my road to nowhere. He
slipped a tape into the cassette and Dutch Tilders and The Blues Club
started hoofing into 'Bad Books'. By the time this cut into 'Long Way'
From Brooklyn -- Down to the Bone', Les had gone under Knapsack Bridge and was approaching Blaxland.
At Faulconbridge the fog got thicker and if Les wasn't driving slow
enough already, the council was doing up the road. All he could make
out in the way of scenery was trees, a few churches and old houses
with cars for sale parked out the front. At Hazelbrook Les got stuck
behind a tour bus, then when he reached Lawson the fog set in like a
monstrous grey blanket over everything and he got stuck behind a
petrol tanker. Les shook his head in disgust. What did George say up
the club one night? If brains were ink, I wouldn't have enough to
write a full stop. He's not wrong. You would have got up here faster in
a horse and buggy a hundred years ago. The road and the traffic
ground on. 'Paying Cost To The Boss' -- B.B. King and The Rolling
Stones were picking and honking out the speakers as Les went past
the turn off to Katoomba. Shouldn't be too far now, he mused. B.B.
King faded into Mollie O'Brien wailing 'Denver to Dallas' when Les
made out a sign on the left. Medlow Bath. Hello. I'm here. Thank
Christ for that. Les looked for some shops and houses. I am? There
was nothing but trees and a railway line on the right. What the fuck?
A railway station came into view and suddenly what looked like
a palace appeared out of the gloom on the left. It was all maroon and
gold with gold arches out front, set under a huge grey dome next to a
bigger building resembling a white castle. A hedge and an old mossy
sandstone fence ran along the front with a black and gold sign above
the hedge saying, Medlow Astoria -- Welcome. Hey I've heard of
this joint, thought Les. Price said he used to come up here for dirty
weekends before he got married. It's supposed to be el schmicko.
Why don't I prop here? I can't get any closer to Medlow Bath than
this. Les swung the Berlina into the driveway and pulled up outside
the main entrance.
Norton got out of the car, stretched his legs then took the red
carpeted steps to the front doors and into the warmth of the foyer.
Hey, this is all right, he thought, pausing to take a look around.
Everywhere was beautifully restored art-deco, featuring maroon, gold
and white. Arches and small columns stood under a domed ceiling
hung with sparkling chandeliers, while thick scatter rugs covered a
polished oak floor spread with velvet lounges and plump matching
cushions. Alongside the lounges were ornate wooden tables and
lamps made to resemble ancient Egyptian figurines. There was an
open fireplace under a white archway on the left and in front of
another white archway on the opposite side of the room two polished
oak tables formed the front desk. An attractive, dark-haired woman
in a crisp char-grey uniform and matching tie smiled up from the
desk on the left.
'Yes sir. May I help you?'
'I'd like a room for the night, please,' replied Les. 'A single.'
'Certainly sir.' The woman consulted a register. 'I can let you have
a room in the Concordia Wing at three hundred dollars a night. Or, if
you wish to take advantage of our mid-week special, you can have
two nights for four hundred dollars.'
Les thought for a moment. 'Yeah okay. I'll take the two nights.'
Even though he intended staying only one night, it was now mid
afternoon and in the thick fog outside he'd be flat out finding a herd
of elephants with bells round their necks let alone a house. So he'd
have to leave his searching till the morning, when hopefully the fog
would lift. For the sake of an extra hundred he could take his time
checking out and relax a little before he went back to Sydney. The
woman took Norton's credit card number, did the details and gave
him a key to room 123. Les said he'd be right with his bag, went out
and parked the car near the sandstone fence then came back inside,
turned right at the foyer and went looking for his room.
The Medlow was huge and plush and was probably the place years
ago. Long carpeted corridors ran to the left and right with signs
saying Del Monte Room, Savoy Lounge, Gaming Room, Caledonia
Wing, etc. Les walked past the old gaming room on his right, that was
now a conference room, and the breakfast room on the left where a
scattering of punters were taking tea and sandwiches in front of huge
windows overlooking the Megalong Valley. Further on, a double-glass
door opened into an extensive, art-deco lounge room called The
Kurrajong Room. Logs crackled in a big open fireplace on the left and
more plush furniture, lamps and ornate tables sat on a polished
wood floor spread with thick rugs. On the right was a cigar room,
another glass door, then a chrome-railed bar next to a pool table
tucked into the corner. Delicate chandeliers hung from the ceiling,
paintings and mirrors looked down from the walls and running past
a balcony on the left, massive windows with brown drapes offered
stunning views of the Megalong Valley. From a set of speakers hidden
somewhere in the ceiling, a reedy version of 'Pennies From Heaven
played softly in the background. Les stopped and looked around with
a half-smile on his face. It was like stepping back in time. Any
moment he expected either Agatha Christie and Hercule Poirot to
stroll in ready to take tea and cucumber sandwiches, or Fred Astaire
and Ginger Rogers to come dancing down the staircase in the corner
on the left singing 'You And The Song And The Moonlight'. The
doorway to the Concordia Wing was near the staircase. Les picked up
his bags and headed towards it.
A corridor with scalloped light fittings along the cornice led to a
short set of stairs on the right where two chrome statuettes of women
holding outstretched beach balls were set in a wall alongside some
glass bricks. Les took the stairs to his room. For three hundred dollars
a night, or whatever he was paying, Les felt his room could have
been a little bigger. It was no larger than the spare room at Chez
Norton. But it was cosy enough, with a comfortable double bed, a
small TV, a bathroom and a table with two leopard-skin seats. A sash
cord window offered a sweeping view of the Megalong Valley; only
the fog and rain cut the view to a path below and the surrounding
trees and ferns. Les tossed his bag on the bed and sat down facing the
window. Well, here I am, he thought. Now what? The rain pattered
down on the roof and the breeze coming from the valley flicked at
the rainwater in the trees. I suppose I'd better drive into Katoomba,
buy a map and see if I can figure out where they've hidden the rest of
Medlow Bath over a cup of coffee or something. Les unpacked his
travel bag, freshened up a bit then headed back the way he came.
On his way out through the Kurrajong Room, Les stopped
beneath a painting near the main door, titled Nile in Flood. It showed the pyramids and the sphinx and Les was thinking how nice it looked, when a girl about twenty-five came bouncing down the stairs
in the far corner carrying a clipboard. She was wearing a light blue
pleated dress cut above the knee, long white socks and dainty white
shoes. A blue crepe de chine top fitted over her dress and a brimless
white sequinned hat sat tight on her head like a bathing cap. She had
a pretty pixie face, blue eyes and two thin bangs of blonde hair flicked
across her cheekbones from beneath her hat. Les gave the girl a
double blink as she stepped daintily across the room. Did I say
something about Agatha Christie? It's Vera Claythorne taking a brief
holiday after the coroner's inquest. As the girl approached the main
door she dropped a fountain pen from her clipboard. Les bent down
and picked it up.
'Excuse me, miss,' he called out. 'You dropped something.' The girl
either didn't hear Les or she ignored him. 'Okay,' said Les. 'Bleed
to death.'
The girl turned around from the door. 'What was that?' she said.
Les held up the fountain pen. 'You dropped this. I said, okay, if you
don't want it, I'll have it.'
'Oh, I'm ever so sorry,' apologised the girl. 'I didn't hear you.'
'That's quite all right,' replied Les, handing her the fountain pen.
'Thank you very much,' she said. 'That's very gentlemanly of you.'
Les gave a slight bow. 'My pleasure, madam. Hugo would have
done the same for Vera Claythorne.'
The girl stared at Les and her cheeks coloured slightly. 'Oh my
goodness,' she said, then opened the door and bounced off down the
corridor like the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.
Have a nice day, Vera, Les chuckled to himself. Now, what was I
doing before I was so rudely interrupted?
Les got in the car and headed through the drizzling rain and fog
towards Katoomba. After the warmth of the hotel it seemed colder
than it already was, making things even more miserable. Before long
he reached the lights at the turn-off and took a right across the
bridge over the railway line.
The road curved left past some shops on the right and a few more
on the left next to a tunnel beneath the railway station, then it went
right again into the main drag. From what Les could make out
through the fog and rain, Katoomba was trying to be the art-deco
capital of Australia. Most of the shops, especially the restaurants, had
that 1930s black and chrome look about them. The main street
sloped down on the left, past restaurants, banks, clothes shops, a
couple of churches and whatever before levelling off at a pedestrian
crossing on an intersection. Les did a U-turn and came up the other
side. It was much the same. More shops and art-deco restaurants, a
medical centre, butcher, newsagent, the town centre arcade, an
antique furniture centre then the grounds of another old hotel at the
top, the Kensington. The hotel was at the back but a set of steps off
the street led up to two double-glass doors and a bar. A sign on one
of the doors said, Piano Man -- Thursday Night. Back at the top of
the hill, Les noticed a hotel across the railway line called the Gordon.
He did another U-turn and found a parking spot, outside a cluster of
restaurants opposite the Kensington, then got out of the car and had
a look around for a moment. With his breath turning into small
clouds of steam in the cold mountain air, Les strolled down to the
newsagency and got a map and the local paper. That didn't take long
and when he returned Les decided to try Cafe Zappa.
Like the others it was either restored -- or just left the way it was
to save spending any money -- art-deco. The floor was bare boards
with booths on either side and a counter at the rear where they did
the cooking. Les went for a bowl of pumpkin soup and a flat white;
the woman said she'd bring it to him. Even though it was cold and
miserable outside, Les chose a footpath table left of the front door,
opposite a table full of hippy-gothics on the right.
Along with the men at the table there were three women with
prams and babies and everyone had this arty, 'Okay, so I might be on
the dole or getting a pension and I dress like a rag picker and I'm half
broke. But I'm still really cool, you know' look about them while they
sipped their coffees and smoked skinny roll your owns from a
communal packet of Champion Ruby. Like most of the other punters
shuffling past in the rain, carrying string bags or backpacks, the dress
code at the table opposite was thick beanies, army pants, loose
knitted jumpers and leg warmers. Purple Doc Martens, rainbow
coloured stockings and crushed velvet dresses was another look,
along with denim dresses, greasy jeans and ugh boots. And of course
nose rings, ear rings, ear studs and cheap Indian jewellery. Some
bloke with a cane at a table outside the restaurant next door was
wearing a floppy velvet hat, a white jacket and a long scarf. He looked
like Dr Who minus the Tardis. Norton's pumpkin soup and coffee
arrived. He left the locals to it and sipped and supped while he
studied his map.
Medlow Bath wasn't all that big. Just a cluster of cul-de-sacs on
the other side of the railway line, not far from a water catchment
area, with one long road leading out to the airfield. Depending on the
fog and rain, Les felt he was in with a chance. He still didn't know
what he was looking for and if he did find the house with the red
fence, he was just going to hope no one was home and break in. He'd
brought a jemmy with him for that purpose. He still didn't have
much to go on. But he didn't have much to lose. And the alternative
was the remand yard at Long Bay. Les put the map aside and flicked
through the paper while he finished his soup and coffee. The soup
was a bit bland and could have done with some chilli and garlic. The
coffee was okay. By the time he'd finished, the street was emptying
and it was getting dark. Les paid his bill and left for the hotel.
Driving back to The Medlow, Les found himself developing a kind
of 'who gives a stuff' attitude. He had nothing much to go on. And he
was more than likely wasting his time. So why not to have as much
fun as he could before the chop, and try not take it too seriously.
If something turned up, great. If it didn't, well, at least he'd had a go.
Les was also feeling, although he'd been off his food a bit, the
pumpkin soup and the mountain air had put the edge back on his
appetite. Dinner at the hotel would definitely be in order. After a few
gin and tonics in the Kurrajong Room of course. I wonder should one
wear one's tuxedo to dinner? He mused. And take one's ivory cigarette
holder? One should certainly give it some thought. He found the same
parking spot by the sandstone fence and locked the car.
There weren't many people around as Les walked to his room; a
few Japanese tourists, one or two couples and the smiling staff going
past. Les took his time having a shower and a shave, then changed
into a blue shirt with little white roulette wheels on it Price had given
him, jeans, black desert boots and his leather jacket over the top.
Then dabbed a drop or two of Eau Sauvage on his face. He also took
a book with him to read while he had a few drinks. It was a book he'd
bought off Billy Dunne for two dollars. Billy's wife had bought it for
three dollars in an op-shop. It was called The Portable Beat Reader and had a photo of William Burroughs and Jack Kerouac on the
cover. The main reason she bought it was because the photo of Jack
Kerouac on the cover looked a lot like Billy. Billy however couldn't
get into the book. Especially the poetry. Les didn't mind the book.
There was a bit of Charles Bukowski, and Burroughs' views on drug addiction made interesting reading. Like Billy, however, Les too
thought the poetry was VFO. Very fuckin ordinary.
Apart from a young barman in black, there was no one in the
Kurrajong room. Les ordered a gin and tonic, chose a plush lounge
facing the side door and took in the art-deco ambience while he sipped
his gin and tonic and read his book. He was looking at a poem that
consisted of, 'Scissor sceptre cutting prow' repeated four times,
followed by, 'Ahh, swark, swark,' and thinking, did some wally actually
get paid to write this? when who should come bouncing down the
stairs, wearing the same clothes, but the girl he saw earlier. Vera
Claythorne. She too was carrying a book. She couldn't have missed
Norton sitting there, but she didn't catch his eye and Les didn't make a
point of catching hers. She went to the bar, got a drink, then sat down
on a lounge a little to Norton's left. She opened her book and started to
read. Les continued to read his and sip his gin and tonic. He was
reading a list of instructions some hippy had written during the
Vietnam War on how to beat the draft. Three suggestions were developed
a bleeding stigmata, contract tertiary syphilis, when the doctor tells
you to spread your cheeks, have a firecracker stuffed in your date. At
the word firecracker, Les wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. He
looked up at the same time Vera did. This time he caught her eye.
'Hello,' he said pleasantly. 'What are you reading?'
Agatha Christie,' replied the girl.' The Mysterious Affair At Styles'.
'I should have guessed,' replied Les.
'Oh? What makes you say that?'
'Nothing,' said Les. 'Just a guess.'
The girl looked at Les for a moment. 'Do you mind if I join you?'
she said. 'There's something I'd like to ask you.'
'Certainly not,' answered Les, shuffling along the lounge. 'Be
my guest.'
The girl came over and sat down on Norton's left. She put her
drink on the table in front of them, then placed the book she was
reading on her lap. In the process, Les managed to sneak a glimpse of
lacy white knickers under the short blue dress.
'You said something to me earlier when I dropped my pen,' said
the girl. 'Hugo would have done the same for Vera Claythorne. What
did you mean by that?'
'Nothing,' smiled Les. 'It was just a joke. I hope I never offended
you?'
'No. Not at all,' replied the girl. 'On the contrary.'
'Really?' purred Les. 'Why's that?'
'That's Agatha Christie. They're two characters in And Then There Were None!
'That's right,' said Les.
'Do you read Agatha Christie?' asked the girl.
'Of course,' said Les. 'Not as much as I'd like to. But I read what I
can.' Les hated Agatha Christie. If he could have, Les would have
organised a book burning and incinerated every Agatha Christie book
he could find, along with the author. When he was at high school, a
sadistic female English teacher made the class read three Agatha
Christie novels. To Les, it was about as interesting as studying for a
degree in law. But being young it got brainwashed into his head and to
this day he still remembered most of the corny names and places.
'I study Agatha Christie,' said the girl, patting her book. 'I
absolutely adore her.'
'I don't blame you,' enthused Les. 'Agatha Christie's one of the
great women writers of our time.'
'Thank you,' smiled the girl. 'I also write poetry.'
'Really?' Les nodded to his book. 'I love poetry.'
'And I'm also working on a novel at the moment.'
Les looked surprised. 'Well I'll be,' he said. 'This is just the most
amazing coincidence.'
'Why? What makes you say that?'
'I happen to be a publisher.'
'A publisher,' gushed the girl. 'No.'
'Yes.' Les offered his hand. 'Allow me to introduce myself. Forrest
McNamara. Roulette Publishing, Sydney.'
'Oh dear me,' flustered the girl, placing her dainty hand in
Norton's huge, calloused mitt. 'This is incredible.'
'Yes. Like I said,' smiled Les. 'It's certainly a delightful coincidence.
So what's your name? If I might ask?'
'Blythe. Blythe Selby'
Les shook his head. 'That's poetry in itself.' He took another
mouthful of gin and tonic and let Blythe get her breath back. You
would have thought she'd just met Elvis.
'And what brings you to the Blue Mountains and the Medlow
Astoria, Blythe?' asked Les.
'I was invited to read my poetry at The Blue Mountains Songs Of
The Wind Festival,' answered Blythe.
Les slanted his head slightly to one side. 'How simply marvellous.'
Blythe gave Les the low-down on how her father ran a furniture
company in Bathurst. It was a family business. She did the books and
Daddy was picking up the tab at the Medlow. She'd just had a reading
and had to go back home in the morning, but she was returning to
the Blue Mountains on the weekend.
'I got a really good response,' said Blythe. 'And on Sunday they're
doing a play at the Varuna Writers' Centre. Agatha Christie's Black
Coffee. I'm playing Lucia Amery.'
'Congratulations, Blythe,' beamed Les. 'You're an actress as well as
a writer.'
'I'd rather write,' said Blythe modestly.
Les finished his drink and offered to buy Blythe one. Blythe accepted
and had a Brandy Alexander. Les had another gin. A double. They sat
sipping politely away and Norton found himself starting to feel pretty
good along with Blythe's dress starting to look even shorter.
'Are you here for the festival too, Mr McNamara?' asked Blythe.
Les held up a hand. 'Please. Forrest will do. No, Blythe, I'm up here
to interview a writer. I'm trying to get him to join Roulette.' Les
smiled over his drink. 'It's called head hunting.'
'Goodness,' said Blythe. 'Who is he?'
Les shook his head solemnly. 'I'm sorry Blythe. But I can't tell you
at the moment.'
'I understand,' said Blythe. 'You're still secretly negotiating.'
'Exactly.'
Blythe took a healthy hit on her brandy. 'So which poets and
writers do you publish Forrest?' she asked politely.
'Publish?' Les tried to look thoughtful for a moment. 'Adolph
Glunshnutter, the German author. Marvin Schwartz, the Jewish
author.'
'Marvin Schwartz?' said Blythe. 'I think I've heard of him. What
did he write?'
'Abraham's Ashes!
'Oh.'
'Amongst our Australian authors we've got Murray Scrartenvitch,
Raymond Tracy, Georgina Brennan, Wilhelmina Dunleavy. To name
a few.'
'I can't say I've come across them in Bathurst,' said Blythe.
'You haven't?' Les stroked his chin. 'I must make a note to contact
our country rep when I get back to the office and see that he gets
some out there.'
'It sounds like you run a pretty tight ship at Roulette Publishing,'
said Blythe.
'Oh yeah, we're out there, Blythe,' said Les. 'We've got our finger
on the publishing pulse. We're watching the watchers.'
Blythe looked at Les for a moment. 'Would you like to hear some
of my poetry, Forrest?'
Les nearly swallowed all his drink. 'Why I'd ... only be too
delighted, Blythe.'
'It's in my room. I'll get it.'
Les watched as Blythe skipped up the stairs like the white rabbit
again, giving him another glimpse of her knickers when she
reached the first landing. Christ! This is going to be nice, he
thought. Stuck with some bimbo trapped in an Agatha Christie
time warp while she reads me her poetry. I think I'd better get
another couple of drinks. Still, I wouldn't mind shoving my face
into Miss Selby's present participle, if she'd grab me on the
personal pronoun. Agatha bloody Christie. God! If only old Miss
Crowther could see me now. Les got two fresh drinks and sat back
down on the lounge, before Blythe returned with a book binder
and made herself comfortable next to him She opened the folder
and started up.
'This one's called "The Singularity Of Narcissism",' said Blythe.
'Fired with desire
I peered into the river of
x-rayed souls
trawling for mythical endurance.
My view obscured
by thoughts
too perceptive to be dreamed.'
Les caught his reflection in a mirror near the bar. He'd seen that
expression before. In the meatworks when a steer cops it in the back of the head with a stun-gun. He took another slug of gin as Blythe served up her next offering.
'This one's called "Uncompromisation and Patience".
'She wanted solitude
so she clothed herself in delusion
knowing the demons of antiquity
would soon be knocking on the door of redemption.'
Before long Les was looking for the cyanide pill. Blythe's poems
would stink in a deep-freeze. They made absolutely no sense, and any
that did weren't worth listening to. Eventually, after what seemed like
days, she came up for air.
'Well,' she asked shyly. 'What do you think so far, Forrest?'
Les looked at her impassively. 'Wonderful, Blythe,' he said quietly.
'Just wonderful. Did it take you long to write them?'
'Oh, yes. Years.'
'I thought they might have. They're so full of hidden passion. Or
dare I say, more, an assertive passion. You've obviously written these
poems from your heart, Blythe.' Only because your arse was probably
blocked up at the time.
'Yes. Yes I did.' Blythe touched Les on the thigh. 'You obviously
know literature Forrest. Would you like to hear some more?'
'I certainly would,' said Les. 'But I've got an idea. How about while
you're reading your ... works, I compare them to some of the poets
in here.' Les held up The Portable Beat Reader. 'I'd like to balance your
writing against these people. I feel it would make an interesting
comparison.'
'All right,' smiled Blythe. 'That sounds like a great idea. This one's
called. "Irreligious Shadows Killed The Rainmaker".'
While Blythe waffled away, Les immersed himself in his book,
looking up every now and again to smile and nod his head in
approval. Norton's book was still heavy going, but compared to
putting up with Blythe, it was like reading Peanuts. After a while,
Blythe ran out of steam and her voice developed a slight croak. Les
applauded softly.
'That was absolutely marvellous, Blythe,' he said serenely. 'The
comparisons between you and some of the writers in here, especially
Diane DiPrima, are absolutely fascinating.'
'Diane DiPrima,' gushed Blythe. 'Surely you're not saying my
poetry's in the same class as hers?'
'In the same class?' Les reached over and touched Blythe on the
leg. 'It's almost as if Diane could learn from you.'
'Oh dear. I... I don't know what to say.'
Les rivetted his eyes on Blythe. 'Blythe,' he said quietly. 'There's
something I have to ask you here.'
'Certainly, Forrest. What is it?'
'Would you be interested in Roulette publishing some of your
works?'
'Publish my works?' squealed Blythe. Her knees started to shake
and it was all she could do to stop from peeing herself. 'Oh yes. Yes.
That's been my dream.'
'Excellent,' said Les. 'Then how about we discuss it further over
dinner? Would you care to join me?'
'I'd love to.'
All right. Let's go have a literary luncheon. Dinner ... whatever. And we can have another drink too.'
'I'll just go to the Ladies first.'

'I'll wait here for you,' smiled Les.
As Blythe skipped off to the Ladies, Les caught his reflection in the
mirror again. The girls at work have got a name for blokes like you,
he told himself. SAAB. A swine and a bastard. Les gave himself a look
of grudging approval. Fair enough. But I prefer dropkick, myself. It's
got more of an Australian ambience to it. Blythe returned from the
Ladies and Les stood up.
'Are you ready to eat?' he asked.
'Yes,' replied Blythe, and picked up her poetry.
'Excellent.' Les motioned with one hand, 'After you, Blythe.'
Les opened the door for Blythe and they took the corridor past the
gaming room and foyer through another door leading into a long,
gently sloping corridor lined with huge, velvet chesterfields,
lamp tables and indoor plants. Landscapes, hunting scenes and
framed etchings hung on one wall, the other was arched windows
overlooking the Megalong Valley. The corridor ended at a staircase
and access ramp leading into another room full of more art-deco
furnishing, mainly cream and white; with chess sets, a library and an
enclosed bar at one end. A doorway on the left led along a shorter
corridor to the dining room.
Les and Blythe stepped into a dining area with room for over a
hundred, one half blocked off where it was divided by an arch
across the middle. About twenty diners were seated round polished
wooden tables with crisp, white tablecloths. Again it was all very
plush; thick red carpet on the floor, cream and gold decor round
the walls; chandeliers above and tiny white lamps on the tables.
There was a velvet lounge setting as you walked in on the right with
a grand piano in the middle and an old fortune-telling machine sat
against one wall. Music from the 1920s played softly in the
background and several waitresses in black uniforms and black
bowties hovered round the guests. Wearing an immaculate grey
suit, a maitre d with a shaved head stood behind the bookings desk
on the left. On his lapel was a name tag. Angelo. Les caught his eye
as he looked up from the guest list and had a fifty palmed into the
maitre d's hand quicker than it took him to shampoo and condition
his hair.
'Good evening, Angelo,' said Les brightly, producing his door key.
'I believe you have a table for me. Mr McNamara. Room 123. Forrest
McNamara.'
The maitre d had seen this many times before. He ran a highlighter
across the guest list then bowed and scraped like his head was going to
fall off and roll across the dining room. 'Of course, Mr McNamara,' he
said, then made a gracious, sweeping gesture with one well-manicured
hand. 'This way sir.'
'Easy as one, two, three,' smiled Blythe.
'Something like that,' winked Les.
Angelo led them to a table for four facing away from the other
diners. He placed a wine list in front of Norton while a waitress
removed the unnecessary cutlery. 'What sort of wine would you like,
Blythe?' asked Les.
'I think I'll have the same as what you were drinking before,' she
answered. 'A gin and tonic'
'Make that two gin and tonics please, Angelo.'
'Certainly Mr McNamara. Tanquerray... ?'

'Bombay Sapphire.'
'Of course. Thank you, Mr McNamara.' The maitre d laid on some
more bow and scrape and sent one of the waitresses hurrying out to
the bar.
'Have you been here before, Forrest?' asked Blythe.
'Once or twice,' replied Les.
'They certainly look after you.'
'Yes. I guess it just comes with the territory. Publishing.'
'I can't wait to see my poems in print,' fluttered Blythe. The either,' said Les.
Two crisp gin and tonics arrived and Les proposed a toast to
Blythe's success. Blythe modestly accepted that. She had another sip
of gin and looked at Les.
'Do you mind if I ask you a question, Forrest?' she said.
'Sure,' shrugged Les. 'What is it?'
'How did you get that broken nose?'
'Playing rugby union at university.'
'You went to university? Which one?'
'New South Wales.'
'I never went to uni. I went straight into Dad's business when I left
school.'
Les clinked her glass. 'You never know Blythe. It might have been
all for the best.'
Les went for the smoked salmon and asparagus mille feuille for
starters and veal Illawarra with plums and Madeira and macadamia
nut mash potatoes for mains. Blythe sensibly just had mountain
stream trout with basil and Spanish onion salsa.
They nattered away about different things. Les said he'd get her
phone number and address before he left. She'd send him a copy of
her poetry, his company would send her a draft agreement. They'd
discuss the advance later.
'I'm going to get an advance?' gasped Blythe.
'Only a small one at this stage, Blythe,' said Les. 'Just a few
thousand. It's only your first book, remember.'
'Just a few thousand
Blythe was a completely shot bird. Between the drinks and getting
a contract she hardly knew which way was up. However, despite
taking advantage of Blythe's gullibility and his outright filthy lies, Les
was one hundred per cent certain he wasn't going to throw Blythe up in the air. No one ever got rooted in an Agatha Christie novel. The
female characters kept their legs clamped together with super glue;
tighter than the women in Barbara Cartland. And you could bet
Blythe would play the part to the letter. Still, there was no harm in
dropping a quiet sexual innuendo should the occasion arise or
making a cultivated lewd comment.
The food arrived and neither could complain. It was tasty, well
presented and served with an absolute abundance of bow and scrape.
They had two more gin and tonics and finished with coffee. They didn't bother about sweets.
Did you enjoy your meal Blythe?' asked Les.
'Yes. It was absolutely lovely. Thank you.'
'What would you like to do now?'
Blythe smiled and gave her shoulders a dainty shrug. 'I don't really care. I have to be up fairly early in the morning, though.'
'Me too,' inclined Les. 'So how about we go back to the Kurrajong
Room and have a couple more drinks before we call it a night.
There's something I was thinking of doing.'
'Okay.'
Les put the bill on his room, gave the waitress a fifty, the maitre d
gave him some more bow and scrape then they walked back to the
Kurrajong Room.
There were a few people clustered around the fire and two couples
playing pool in the corner. Les and Blythe sat at the same lounge as
before and Les went to the bar, returning with two more gin and
tonics. Blythe took Les's book, flopped around on the lounge and
started reading one of Bob Dylan's songs as a poem. 'A Hard Rain's A
Gonna Fall.' Whether it was all the gin he'd soaked up, Norton wasn't
sure, but he had to admit Bob Dylan's songs made great poems.
Blythe hit him with two clunking choruses of Philip Lamantia's
poetry then closed the book. Les was more than glad because he was
starting to develop corns on his ears.
'And to think you compared my work to what's in here, Forrest,' sighed Blythe. 'I can hardly believe it.'
'Yeah. It's hard to believe all right,' agreed Les. He looked at Blythe
over his gin and tonic. 'Blythe, did Agatha Christie ever write a book
called Death in the Cigar Room?'
Blythe thought for a moment. 'Death in the Clouds. Death on the
Nile. Death Comes as the End. There was The Body in the Library'.
'Blythe,' suggested Les, 'why don't you get your drink and that and
follow me over to the cigar room?'
'All right, Forrest,' smiled Blythe, rising a little unsteadily to her feet.
A row of full length windows curved round the cigar room to the
doorway. Inside was a high ceiling and more plush furniture. A
tapestried lounge setting filled one corner and a maroon velvet lounge
sat against the opposite wall. Paintings of smokers looked down from
above the velvet lounge and next to the front windows was a polished
teak cabinet. Sitting on top was a cigar menu, an ashtray and several
books of matches. Les had noticed a menu at the bar and it made him
curious. He picked up the one on the cabinet and showed Blythe. There
were several cigars on the menu: Cuban, Dominican or Canary Islands.
They ranged from Tobacos Vargas Capitolios at $9.50 to Galeon
Robusto at $15.50 or Romeo y Julieta Dedros de Luxe No. 3. at $18.50.
'How would you like to puff on a nice Cuban cigar, Blythe?' said
Les. 'Like Mr Justice Wargrave might do, writing a letter to Constance
Culmington.'
'Oh yes,' enthused Blythe. 'That sounds exciting.'
'Wait here, my dear.' Les gave a slight bow and walked round to the
bar as Blythe sat down on a tapestry lounge chair in the corner.
In a couple of minutes Les was back with two fresh drinks and two
Romeo y Julietas, snipped at the end and ready to fire up.
There you go, Blythe,' he said, handing her a cigar and an ashtray.
'What do I do Forrest?' she asked. 'I don't smoke.'
Neither do I,' said Les. 'But just put your lips round the end and
suck. And don't inhale.'
Les struck a match and held it to the end of Blythe's cigar; after
about half a dozen puffs she was away. Les got his going and sat down
opposite her as swirls of sweet blue smoke drifted above them.
though Les was a non-smoker, the cigar didn't taste too bad. Pretty
much like what it said on the menu. Dark, sweet, with a hint of cocoa
beans and coffee and a core of earthiness. Les began feeling quite
contented as he puffed away and sipped his gin and tonic. Blythe
looked like she was feeling quite contented also. She was all over the
lounge chair, her top loosening noticeably, giving Les a nice glimpse
of snow white breast behind the crepe de chine. And her skirt had
crept up considerably, giving Les an eagle's eye view of Blythe's sweet
little map of Tasmania beneath her lace knickers.
'So what do you think, Blythe?' asked Les. 'Something different.'
Blythe tapped some ash into the ashtray. 'Yes. They're nice. Sort of
sweet. And rich.'
Les blew a smoke ring across the room. 'What was it Ernest
Hemingway said? A woman is a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke.'
'I'm not sure,' said Blythe. 'But I don't think it was Monica
Lewinsky,' she giggled.
'No,' replied Les slowly.
'What do you think, Forrest?'
'I don't know, Blythe,' replied Les. 'I haven't finished my cigar yet.'
Blythe managed to blow a smoke ring and Les blew one into it. He
held up his cigar and smiled. 'Romeo y Julieta. That's us, Blythe.
Hasta la vista and buenas noches.'
'Oh Forrest, I didn't know you spoke Spanish.'
'I don't,' replied Les. 'I speak in tongues. And if my tongue could
talk right now, you know what it would say, Blythe?'
'What would it say, Forrest?' purred Blythe.
Les nodded to Blythe's crumpet poking out under her pleated
dress. 'That looks good enough to eat.'
'Ooohh Mr McNamara,' fluttered Blythe. She spread her legs a
little more. 'Well, like Candye Kane says, all you can eat, and you can
eat it all night long.'
Les almost ground the end off his $18.50 Romeo y Julieta. 'Why
don't we go back to your room when we finish these, Miss Selby, and
discuss your draft agreement some more? Mine's a little untidy at the
moment.'
'That sounds like a good idea,' smiled Blythe. 'Let's do that, Mr
McNamara.'
They finished their gin and tonics while 'Putting On The Ritz'
played out of the speakers in the ceiling next door. Then they stubbed
their cigars and Les followed Blythe across the lounge and up the
stairs back to her room.
Blythe's room was almost identical to Norton's. Only she had a
fake tiger skin lounge and a bigger window with a better view. The
bed lamps were still on when she opened the door.
'I'll just go to the loo,' she said, dropping her keys by the bed. 'Help
yourself to the mini-bar if you want to.'
'I might have a beer,' said Les. 'Would you like something?'
'A small Scotch and water. No ice thanks.'
'Okey doke.'
Les knocked the top off a bottle of Hahn Premium then opened
a bottle of Mount Franklin and made Blythe a Scotch. He placed
her drink on the coffee table in front of the lounge, sat down and
had a mouthful of beer. Blythe came out of the bathroom, sat
down next to him and picked up her glass. Les clinked his bottle against it.
'Well. Here's to success, Blythe,' he winked. 'May all your poems be
little ones.'
'Thank you, Forrest.' Blythe took a sip of Scotch and smiled at Les.
'I just can't believe my luck. I gave a reading at the writer's festival
and now I'm getting a publishing contract. All in two days. It's almost
too good to be true.'
Les sipped his beer and shrugged. 'I think it was meant to be,
Blythe. Fate.'
'Yes, Forrest,' breathed Blythe. 'Fate.' They sipped their drinks and
Blythe moved her knee against Norton's. 'Do you believe in fate,
Forrest?'
For a second a picture of the catering van exploding just as he left
the cake box there flashed across Norton's mind. 'Do I ever, Blythe,'
he said slowly.
'Would you say I had a fatal attraction Forrest?'
Les put his drink down and placed his hand gently inside Blythe's
thigh. 'You've got a fatal something Blythe. I can tell you that.'
Blythe tilted her head up slightly. Les bent forward and kissed her.
There was a slight hint of cigar smoke, but her lips were still sweet
and soft and her tiny tongue as delicate as the white lace in her
knickers. Whether it was the cigar, the mountain air, or just
something about Blythe herself, Les wasn't sure. But in seconds he
had a rock hard boner ready to blast off. He kissed Blythe a while
longer then stood up, took her hand and led her across to the bed.
'Daddy missed out on dessert downstairs, momma,' he smiled.
'And daddy needs something for his sweet tooth.'
'Ooohh Hugo. Do you think Emily Brent would approve?'
'Vera. Poor old Emily never knew what she was missing.'
Blythe kicked off her shoes and lay back on the bed as Les slipped
her knickers off and spread her legs. Then without any further ado,
he pushed his face into Blythe's beautiful little ted and went for it.
It was absolutely sensational. Les couldn't remember ever coming
across one like it. Blonde and soft and trimmed. It was like a little
rosebud. Pink and soft. If you put it out in the morning sun the dew
would have settled on it. Blythe had also rubbed some sweet smelling
oil around herself, making things even more enjoyable. Les chewed
and licked and sucked like it was a slice of watermelon at a country
picnic. Best of all, Blythe was going almost spare at the end of the
bed. She kicked and bucked and wriggled her hips, screamed and
moaned and sighed. It was music to Norton's ears. Before he knew it,
Mr Wobbly was frothing at the mouth and Les was ready to blow his
bolt all over the inside of his jeans.
'Ohhhhh Vicar,' Blythe was in some kind of Agatha Christie
dreamland. All she could do was moan.
Les didn't say a word. He just kept eating Blythe's gorgeous pussy,
getting hornier by the second. It was that good, he could have eaten it
all night then backed up for seconds in the morning. Suddenly Blythe
gave a little scream, grabbed Les by the hair, pushed her hips up and
emptied out in his face. Les gave it one more lick then came up for
air; eyes sparkling, a grin from ear to ear. He fell down alongside
Blythe, pulled a hanky from his pocket and wiped his face while he
picked a few hairs out of his teeth. Blythe's eyes eventually stopped
spinning around, she got most of her breath back and faced Les with
her hands against his chest.
'I'm sorry, Forrest,' she panted. 'But I can't have sex with you.'
'Don't worry, Blythe. I was counting on that.' Les unzipped his fly
and pulled out Mr Wobbly, gave it a couple of strokes then put his
hand on the back of Blythe's head. 'So get your literary laughing gear
around this, sister. And tell the vicar why you weren't at church
on Sunday.'
Blythe didn't need much persuasion and Les didn't need any
prompting. Blythe hardly had her lips around Norton's knob before
he started blowing. Blythe gave it about half a dozen decent sucks
and Les almost levitated from the bed as he emptied out. Poor
Blythe. It looked like she'd walked in front of a flying lemon
meringue pie. It was in her mouth, down her throat, in her hair,
across her eyebrows, running down her chin. After he stopped
howling, Les gave himself one last stroke and some went on the
curtains and the top of the TV.
'My goodness, Forrest,' exclaimed Blythe. 'You certainly were
excited, weren't you.'
'Excited,' spluttered Les. 'Blythe I haven't been this excited since
Australia won the America's Cup.'
Blythe slipped her knickers back on and went to the bathroom. By
the time she came back, Les had his fly done up and was lying on the
bed with his hands behind his head.
'What time are you having breakfast in the morning?' asked
Blythe. 'I have to get up early myself.'
Les took this as a hint. Blythe had got her contract. She'd given her
publisher a decent blow job. Now he could pack up the casting couch
and hit the road.
'I might have a bit of a sleep in,' replied Les. 'I'm not sure. So why
don't you give me your phone number and all that, in case I miss you.'
'Fantastic'
Blythe wrote down her phone number and address. Plus where
she worked. Les gave her Warren's phone number at the advertising
agency and told her to ring him there. Ask for Warren Edwards, his
assistant, just in case he was in a meeting or interstate.
'Well goodnight, Forrest,' said Blythe, opening the door. 'It's been
marvellous. I'm so excited.'
'Yes,' said Les. The too. I've got a good feeling about this.'
Blythe batted her eyelids for a second. 'I just hope you don't think
I'm awful.'
Awful?' said Les. He placed his hands on Blythe's shoulders.
'Blythe. You're not in the slightest bit awful. You're wonderful. And
you're a gifted writer. Believe me.'
Blythe handed Les The Portable Beat Reader. 'Goodnight Forrest.'
'Goodnight, Blythe.' The door closed and Norton was left standing
on his own.
Boy, can I find them, thought Les, as he slowly trudged back along
the corridor. Blythe bloody Selby. Anyway, I'm sure Mr Edwards will
look after her when she rings. Shit! I wouldn't have minded slipping
her one though. What about Blythe's grouse little lamington? I
wonder did they eat lamingtons in any of Agatha Christie's books?
Les picked another tiny blonde hair out of his teeth. Not the way I
just did, that's for sure.
The bar was closed and the Kurrajong Room was empty when Les
came down the stairs. 'Song Of India' was playing from the speakers
in the ceiling. Les went straight to his room, stripped off down to his
jox and T-shirt then cleaned his teeth and got under the sheets,
leaving one bed lamp on. He yawned a couple of times and stared up
at the ceiling for a while, his mind a complete blank. It felt good.
Suddenly Les found himself dog tired. Between driving up there in
the rain, the booze, the rich meal and the blow job, he was knackered.
Oh well, Les thought, as he switched off the light. It hasn't been a bad
trip so far. See what happens tomorrow. In less than a minute, the big
Queenslander was dead to the world.
Norton's bed was that comfortable and the room was so warm, he
probably would have slept in till noon, except that whoever had the
room before him had set the radio alarm for eight o'clock. Les was
abruptly woken to the news, relayed from a Sydney radio station.
Nathan David's station. The news finished with the local weather
report and Les was still half asleep wondering what day it was when
Nathan David's voice came blustering over the airwaves giving a slant
on the news. Instead of sticking to music, it was a law and order rave
about the leniency of the courts and Norton got a guernsey.
'Now, as I've been saying,' trilled David, 'I do have an interest in this
particular film. But I am one hundred per cent up front with my
financial dealings. And always have been. Not like some of the vile
swine in this town whom we won't mention at this time. But that has
nothing to do with it. I saw the security camera video of this Norton
character, allegedly placing the bomb on the film set. Allegedly? It's
there in black and white. He even smirks at the camera. Then the
bomb goes off and a poor, innocent cook is killed. So how does Les
Norton get bail? What? Are the police running some kind of open door
policy at Waverley Police Station? Heavens above. Now this Norton
character is out there walking the streets, probably to plant another
bomb somewhere. I think I'd best leave it at that. But you do have to
ask yourself, what in God's name is going on with our judicial system?'
Norton couldn't believe his ears. Thanks David, you prick. I always
said I wouldn't piss on you. Why don't you just hang me and be done
with it? Christ! Les scowled at the radio as he switched it off. It
wouldn't surprise me if you had something to do with it, you little
cunt. You and your mate King. And that miserable fuckin dyke. Shit!
That reminds me, I was supposed to ring Gerry. It's too early now. I'll
do it after breakfast. Les sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the
window. The fog had lifted but it was still raining steadily and the
thick clouds covering the Megalong Valley looked like huge waves as
the wind pushed them over the mountains. Les opened the window,
shivered, then slammed it shut again. It was still bloody cold. He took
off his T-shirt, got cleaned up then put on his blue tracksuit and
walked down to get something to eat.
There were about twenty guests in the breakfast room, but no sign of
Blythe. I suppose she'd be halfway to Bathurst by now, thought Les. Still
rumblin' from the grumblin' and howlin' from the growlin'. I wonder what she'll tell them at the furniture shop? The register was on the left
you entered and the bain-marie started there. Les told the pleasant woman in charge his room number, then found a table with a view and

filled up with fruit, scrambled eggs, bacon and whatever, washed down
with coffee and orange juice. A number of thoughts went through
Norton's mind while he ate and hearing his name plastered all over the
airwaves was one of them. Apart from a good breakfast, the day hadn't
got off to much of a start. He had one last coffee and signed the tab.
Back in his cosy, warm room, Les could think of better things to
do than be driving round in the rain trying to find some house in the
middle of nowhere. He tossed the jemmy and a torch in his
backpack, then perused his Blue Mountains street directory, deciding
to check out the main cluster of streets first. He put his GAP anorak
on, locked up and walked out to the car.
Cars and trucks hissed by in the rain as Les drove past a car yard
and some old disused buildings belonging to the hotel, then took a
right over the railway line. A hairpin bend brought him alongside the
train station and an old red building that was once the Medlow Bath
Post Office and had since been turned into a book shop and tea
room. The road curved round again to the left, stopping at a dead
end in the bush and another road went down to the right. Les
followed it down amongst more trees and bush, stopping at a longer
street intersected with cul-de-sacs. According to his map, there were
two small ones on the left and the rest angled off on the right before
the long road to the airfield. Les swung the Berlina right.
Medlow Bath was quite hilly, with more houses than Les thought,
most of them built back from the road amongst the surrounding
trees, making it even more difficult to find what he was looking for.
All the cross streets ended in thick bush and the cul-de-sacs ran
down towards a lush green valley dense with trees. A lot of the houses
looked new and well built in either polished wood or rumbled bricks
and nearly every home had a neat front yard full of flowers or ferns.
Clusters of trees were turning from emerald green into beautiful
shades of red and orange as they lost their autumn leaves. Others had
shed huge strips of bark, which hung in the branches or lay across the
road. Even in the mist and rain, Medlow Bath had a noticeable
country elegance. There was the odd shack here and there with a
rusting car body out the front, plus several overgrown blocks of land.
A few had For Sale signs and in one driveway Les made out a truck
with Blue Mountains Bushfire Brigade painted on the side. He
wound the window down a little and the sounds of magpies and
currawongs calling to each other drifted in along with the smell of
wood fires burning in some of the homes.
Les drove up and down, slowly crisscrossing each street and culdesac
as he checked everything out; there were plenty of yards with
red gums or blue gums, but no red gates or blue letter boxes. He
found one wooden building on a corner with a Japanese Shinto arch
under the trees and a coloured lotus on the front gate. The Blue
Mountains Insight Meditation Centre. Les shook his head. I don't
think that's what I'm looking for. Les drove around some more then
took the long road towards the airfield. After a few kilometres the
houses began to run out and Les was starting to run out of patience.
He did a U-turn near a council dump and drove back to where he
started. Les drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and peered
out the windscreen as the wipers click-clacked back and forth. It felt
like he'd been driving round in the rain half the morning. Les looked
at his watch. He had. This is fucked, he told himself, shaking his head
in annoyance. I knew it was going to be a waste of time. There were
two more cul-de-sacs to go, then the ones on the other side of the
railway line and that was it. Les shook his head again, hung a left
towards the end cul-de-sac and turned right.
It was much the same as the others; a short street full of houses
and trees, ending in a turning area at the bottom, and no red gate. Les
came back and drove down the last cul-de-sac. A sign on the corner
said Red Gum Road. It was almost identical to the other cul-de-sac,
except it included a big house built from sandstone blocks on the
right with palm trees out front, and further down on the left, a white
Holden utility and a grey Ford F 100 parked haphazardly across a
driveway belonged to several builders working inside a partially
constructed brick cottage. Slowly and a little tiredly, Les reached the
end of the cul-de-sac, when -- bingo! There it was on the right-hand
side. A blue mail box sitting on a low sandstone fence next to a red
iron gate. A tall blue gum, covered in peeling bark, leaned over the
sandstone fence, all standing in front of a small blue timber house
with a red trim and a green-galvanised-iron roof. A vacant block of
land sat opposite; Les pulled up in front of the vacant block and
wound the window down for a better view.
The front of the house had a small verandah on the left with a seat
next to the front door, and on the right, a bedroom faced the street
with two gables built over the window. Two windows ran down the
right-hand side of the house along the driveway and on the left side
was one window. The surrounding yard was fairly neat before it
stopped at the bush. The sandstone fence half circled round the front
of the house with the gate and the letter box on the right. Painted on
the blue letter box was a yellow sun, moon and stars. Parked in the
driveway was a black Ford station wagon with a wire grille at the back
and sitting out the front was an old brown trailer covered in leaves. A
faded sticker was peeling off the back near the tail light. Les could
just make out what it said: Witches Do It In Spells.
Les wound the window up then did a U-turn and drove back up
the street, parking near the corner so he faced down the cul-de-sac.
That has to be Knox's house, he told himself. Rittosa had the tree out
the front mixed up with the name of the street. The sticker on the
trailer is the clincher. Les smiled tightly. That's the good news. The
bad news is, someone's home. And the worst fuckin news is, that
station wagon's parked too far down the driveway, so you can't tell if
it's gone from up here. Which means I have to wait here to see them
go. And if I go away and come back I'll have to drive past the house
again. Les looked at his watch. Oh well. May as well make myself
comfortable.
Les waited almost an hour. One or two cars went past in the rain
and Les could feel the drivers looking at him. He snatched another
glance at his watch. That car's not going anywhere. I could be sitting
here all bloody day. Les drummed his fingers impatiently on the
steering wheel. I may as well ring Gerry. There's a phone booth
opposite that book shop. Les started the car and drove back to the old
post office.
The phone was out of order and there was a note on the book
shopdoor. Back In An Hour. Les shook his head. Warren's right, I've
got to get myself a mobile bloody phone. Bit late to be thinking of it now, though. He got back in the car and drove to the hotel.
After parking the car, smiling and nodding to the staff as he
walked up to his room, then dialling Sydney, Les had timed it
perfectly to find Gerry's phone engaged. He waited and rang another
three times. Maybe he had the wrong number? Les checked with
Telstra. No. He had the right number. The line was busy. Les stared at
the floor, shook his head then walked out to the car and drove back
to Red Gum Road. This time he took The Portable Beat Reader with him.
The builders were still hammering away and the station wagon
hadn't moved. Les did another U-turn then parked in the same spot
at the end of the street and continued waiting. Another car went by
and not long after that, the white utility belonging to one of the
builders backed out of the driveway and drove past. Out the corner
of his eye, Les saw a young, thin-faced bloke, wearing a gold earring
and with his dark hair tucked under a black beanie, watching him
from behind the wheel. Les kept reading his book and waited. Before
long the utility returned, and Les didn't have to look up to know this
time the driver was staring at him. Les began to feel one of his legs
going to sleep and put the book down. Bugger it. I'll try and ring
Gerry again. He started the car and drove back to the hotel. Another
ten minutes on the phone and her number was still engaged. Fuckin
hell, cursed Les. This is getting ridiculous. He pulled his hood up
against the rain, walked out to his car again and drove back to Red
Gum Road.
When Les reached the end of the cul-de-sac he couldn't believe his
eyes. The station wagon was gone. Yes, he beamed. There is a Santa
Claus. Right. No time to fuck around. Les pulled up in front of the
gum tree, grabbed his backpack and without bothering to lock the
car, walked across to the front gate. He was about to open it when a
movement to his left filled Norton's stomach with ice and made the
hair stand up on the back of his neck. Two Rottweilers with thick
black studded collars raced up to the other side of the gate and snarled at him with gleaming fangs and eyes full of menace. They
didn't carry on with a lot of barking or jumping up and down.
However, Les knew as he watched the ridges of black hair bristling
along their spines, they'd do exactly what they were told to do. Tear
anyone to pieces that came through the gate. Les might have flattened
one with the jemmy, but the other would have got him and he'd be
minus a calf muscle and half his thigh.
'Nice doggies,' said Les, slowly backing away from the gate. 'Nice
doggies.'
Without moving, the two Rottweilers watched him get inside the
car and drive off. By the time Les got to the old post office, his heart
had stopped racing and he pulled over to have a think. Bloody hell!
What about those two monsters. Another couple of steps and in
two seconds I'd have been minute steak. I didn't even think of that.
Les banged a fist into his hand. Fuck it! All that waiting around
for nothing. Angrily Les rubbed at his chin and glared out the
windscreen. No. He was too close now. The two dogs weren't going to stop him. Les swung the Berlina back over the bridge and headed for Katoomba.
The main street was busy with Thursday afternoon shoppers and there were cars everywhere. Les did two frustrating laps up and down looking for a parking spot before leaving the car unlocked in a

hi
driveway next to a bank. He had a quick look around then ran
straight across the road into the butcher shop. There were four
customers and two butchers serving; an older one going bald and a
young one with fair hair and pimples. After a few minutes Les got the
young one.
'Yehmadewodillyav?' the butcher asked in perfect strine.
'Gizdoogillosachugstag,' replied Les.
'Rydo.'
'Njobidubwillya,' asked Les.
'Nowurriesmade.'
The young butcher got two kilos of chuck steak from the window,
chopped it up and put it in a plastic bag. Les paid him, thanked him
and ran back to the car just as a black 4WD pulled up to enter the
driveway. Before the woman driving had a chance to start blowing
her horn, Les got behind the wheel and was on his way. He was back
in Medlow Bath just as a long, freight train rumbled slowly through
the station. Les drove straight back to the house and parked in the
same place as before. He threw his backpack over his shoulder,
opened up the plastic bag and walked across to the gate. Immediately
the two Rottweilers rushed up to the other side looking meaner and
more threatening than ever. Les decided to try a little animal
psychiatry. He wasn't sure who owned the two dogs, but they might
recognise a name.
'Albert,' he said, slowly and clearly. 'Where's Albert?' The two dogs
looked at Les, cocked their ears up and tilted their heads to one side.
'Yeah. Good boys,' said Les. 'Where's Albert? Albert.' The Rottweilers
watched Les suspiciously as he opened the bag of chuck steak.
Then they got a sniff and drool started pouring from their mouths like a tap had been turned on. Whoever was looking after the two
dogs was probably just slinging them a can of Pal each and a few
Meaty Bites. It had been a while since they'd seen choice lean beef.
The two dogs gave a little whine and their tails started to wag. 'Yeah.
Albert,' smiled Les. 'Good boys. Good boys.'
Les tossed a handful of meat over the fence and eased the jemmy
out of his back pack. The two dogs wolfed the meat down in seconds
and looked up for more. Les threw the rest over the fence and slowly
opened the gate. The two Rottweilers tore into the chuck steak ready
to kill each other for it and totally ignored Les. Righto boys, smiled
Les as he stepped inside and closed the gate behind him. Time for a
different kind of animal psychiatry. He brought the jemmy up and
belted the first Rottweiler across the forehead. It gave a grunt of pain,
then went cross-eyed and fell face first into the chuck steak with its
back legs twitching. Before the other Rottweiler even noticed, Les
back handed the jemmy down across its neck. It gave a slight yelp and
went down next to its mate with its eyes closed and its tongue lolling.
The first Rottweiler looked like there might be a kick left in it. Les
gave it another quick belt in the head and it went still. Just to be
certain, Les gave the second Rottweiler one in the head as well. That
was it. Les slipped the jemmy into his backpack then took the two
dogs by their collars and quickly dragged them behind the house.
There was a short set of steps leading up to the back door; Les took
the steps two at a time and shoved the jemmy behind the lock. Two
good wrenches and he was inside the house. He took a torch from his
back pack and had a look around.

Norton found himself standing in a small verandah, the windows
facing the backyard. An old grey chesterfield sat against the opposite
wall, scattered with black cushions, and a tatty green rug covered the
floor. Several abstract art posters hung on the walls and the running
shelf held assorted bric a brac and thick candles. Les couldn't see
anything to get excited about. He moved the torch to a corridor
leading inside and followed it.
There was a kitchen and bathroom on the right and two bedrooms
on the left. The corridor ended at a lounge room then another room
facing the street. The first bedroom had two deadlocks on it. Les left it
for the time being and pushed the door to the second one open. It was
fairly plain. A brass double bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table, dark
curtains over the window and a few prints and rock posters on the wall,
Les figured this room would belong to whoever shared the house. Les
stepped to the end of the corridor and ran his torch over the lounge.
It was very dark; thick velvet drapes covered the windows,
stopping most of the light. A dark blue lounge suite, covered in red
and gold scatter cushions with gold tassles, sat on a red rug and faced
an open fireplace in the corner. Against one wall was a TV, a stereo
and a CD stacker. Around the remaining walls were strange-looking
gothic posters and paintings plus a framed poster of Rosemary's Baby. There were gold stars and pentangles painted on the walls, brie a brae
and candles along the running shelf and a candleholder made from a
skull sat on a coffee table. Hanging over the fireplace was a double
handed sword and sitting on a small shelf above it was a copper
chalice. Hanging on the wall above the chalice was a framed tapestry
containing the words:
Drink from the cup of the Wine of Life,
which is the Cauldron of Cerridwen,
and the Holy Grail of Immortality.
Fill it full of cold Fourex and you've got me, thought Les. Despite
his flippancy, the lounge room gave Les the creeps. He stepped
through and opened the door to the front room.
There was a little more light and the first thing Les noticed was a
chef's hat lying across a wooden chair. Yeah, this is Knox's room,
thought Les. If I owned the house it'd be mine. The bedroom was
almost twice as big as the other one. A four-poster bed sat against the
windows facing the street, the wardrobe was bigger and the dressing
table had a full-length mirror. There was a stack of cookbooks on a small table, more gothic posters on the walls and more fat candles in
holders round the running shelf along with several incense burners.
Amongst the posters was another framed tapestry with a cryptic little
poem.
I do not like thee, Dr Fell,
the reason why, I cannot tell.
There's only one thing I know well
I do not like thee, Dr Fell.
So much for Dr Fell thought Les. I wonder if he bulk bills? On the
wall near the tapestry were some framed photos. Les ran the torch
over them. A couple were of Knox standing outside the house.
Another was Knox with the two Rottweilers. Next to that was Knox
and Brett Rittosa wearing chef's uniforms in a restaurant called The
Moondance Diner. The last photo was of four men, taken from the
knees up, standing in front of an old boat -- a half-cabin, wooden
clinker. There were three portholes along the cabin and on the bow
was written Trough Queen. It was moored at the edge of a park, next
to a sign saying Victor Harbor and in the distance was a rocky island
with a jetty running out to it. Three of the men were wearing Tshirts
with Victor Harbor Sea Scouts on the front, the fourth man had Trough Queen printed on his. The man wearing a sea scout's Tshirt
on the left was Albert Knox. The others were all wearing floppy white
captain's hats and sunglasses and Les couldn't recognise any of them.
The only standout feature was two had big noses and another was
smoking what looked like a joint. They weren't quite facing the
camera full on, but all four men seemed to be cracking up at some
private joke. Les shone his torch over the photo. I'd say they're the
crew of that boat. One of them's the skipper. And Knox and the other
two are wearing sea scout T-shirts for a joke. I wonder if they've been
using the Trough Queen for a bit of dope smuggling? From what I
know about Albert Knox, it wouldn't surprise me in the least. Find
those other blokes in the photo with him and you never know what
might turn up. This could be what I'm looking for. Les took the
photo from the wall and put it in his back pack. He flashed his torch
around the dead man's room again, had a quick look in his wardrobe
and left it at that. Les didn't want to be in the house any longer than
he had to. Apart from whoever was living there coming back, the
house had a weird feel about it. It belonged in a Stephen King movie.
Les stepped back into the lounge room then walked down to the
room with the locks on the door. He got the jemmy from his back
pack and shoved it in the jamb. The noise in the empty wooden
house was horrendous, but three good wrenches and the door
was open.
Les gave it a push and walked straight in on a well-organised
hydroponic operation. Twenty healthy marijuana plants were
growing in tanks placed neatly under Gro-Lights hanging from the
ceiling. Each plant was over a metre high and they were all starting
to head. Les gave the operation a grudging nod of approval. Very
nice boys. There should be a few dollars' worth there. Les, however,
wasn't in the least bit concerned about the late cook and his cohorts'
indoor drug plantation. He stepped out the back door and closed it
behind him. The two Rottweilers were still lying where he left them.
Les took the steps two at a time again, got in his car and drove back
to the hotel.
The first thing Les did was try to ring Gerry again. The number
was still engaged. He changed into a clean blue T-shirt then got the
photo out of his back pack and studied it. After finding the hydroponic set up in the house, Les was now convinced drugs were
behind all this and Knox and other men in the photo were dope
dealers. They'd just pulled off a shipment and that's why they were all
laughing and clowning around. And Knox was laughing loudest
because he'd ripped the others off. They found out and arranged his
murder. Find the men in the photo and you could bet you'd find the
killer. Or killers. But where the fuck was Victor Harbor? Les had
never heard of it. He placed the photo on the bed then walked down
to reception and asked for a booklet of post codes. It didn't take long

to find Victor Harbor was in South Australia. But whereabouts in
South Australia? Les returned the booklet and strolled back to his
room. There was one way to find out. They'd have to have a Victor
Harbor Motel or something. Les rang Telstra. They found him a
Victor Harbor, Ezy Rest Motel. Les wrote the number down then
picked up the phone.
'Hello Ezy Rest Motel. How can I help you?' came a woman's voice.
'Yes. Have you any vacancies?' asked Les.
'How many people?'
'Ahh ... two.'
'No problem. When did you want them?'
'On the weekend. Look, we're new to South Australia,' said Les.
'How far are you from say ... Adelaide?'
'Eighty-five kilometres, if you come via Mount Compass.'
'Thanks. I'll see you when we get there.'
Les hung up and looked at the photo again. Eighty-five kilometres
from Adelaide. This bloody Adelaide connection kept cropping up all
the time. Knox, King, David. Simone Mitchum. The men in the
photo. Yeah, but that's South Australia. This is New South Wales. It's a
long way away. Even if this Victor Harbor is just a short drive
from Adelaide.
'Ohh shit!' Les sat up on the edge of the bed. 'Oh fuckin hell!'
Talk about short drives. What about a short drive to Sydney? And
report in to the police? Les had forgotten all about it. He looked at his
watch. There was no way in the world he could get there on time
now. And what did those two cops say? If he was one minute late
they'd arrest him. If he couldn't report in, don't bother ringing up, they'd come looking for him, with the rest of the NSW police force,
and shooting him on sight would be a pleasure. What did Tait say? We're filthy on having to watch you walk out of here. They meant every
word. They'd had pressure put on them in the middle of an arrest
and they didn't like it.
'Shit! Fuck! Fuck it!' Les punched the bed, almost dislodging the
mattress.
He felt a film of sweat form on his brow. Les wasn't starting to
panic, but there was a cold surge in the pit of his stomach. Things
had suddenly changed. For the worse. He'd breached his bail
conditions and now he was a fugitive. He could be arrested on sight.
And after what he was supposed to have done, you could bet the cops
would be looking for him everywhere. What about when Nathan
David found out? He'd have a bulletin on him every half-hour. Have
you seen this man? What are the police doing about it? How did he
get bail in the first place? Les fell back on the bed and looked up at
the ceiling. What should he do? Ring Eddie? No. With everyone
running around for him, Eddie would think he was a complete dill
breaking his bail conditions. Ring Price? After all the trouble Price
went to, to get him bail, he'd probably tell Eddie to shoot him. Les
cursed and banged at the bed. Then he settled down. No. It was time
to do his own thing. He'd been listening to people all his life and got
dumped on, and if he hadn't listened to Eddie and his silly fuckin
ideas, he wouldn't be in all this shit in the first place. Les stared at the
photo on the bed and felt he'd found something to go on. Not much.
But it was better than hanging around Bondi. Or Sydney. Les absently
looked at his watch and picked up the phone again.
'Hello,' came a familiar man's voice. 'Travelabout Clovelly. Gary
Blair speaking.'
'Hello Gary. It's Les Norton.'
'Les. How are you? I'd thought you'd be ... well I don't know
where I thought you'd be, to be honest.'
'I'm in the Blue Mountains.'
Gary was the team's travel agent. He was a good style of a bloke
and a snappy dresser and always with a twinkle in his eye. Like Gerry
the accountant, Gary could cut corners and didn't ask too many
questions.
'So Les. What can I do for you?' asked Gary.
'Gary, I need a ticket to Adelaide. Leave tomorrow. Come back
Sunday night. A cargo plane. A room at the Y. Anything. I don't give a fuck.'
Gary chuckled over the line. 'Les, you're not going to believe this.
I've just had a bloke, some company director, pull out of a trip I had
organised. I'm out a bit of time and money ringing Adelaide and
that. But it's yours if you want it.'
'I'll take it,' said Les. 'Even if it's in the back of a Hercules.'
'It's not in the back of a Hercules,' said Gary. 'It's a package.'
'A what?'
'A package. You fly business class. You got Golden Wing. A driver's
waiting for you at the airport. You stay in a Regency Suite at the
Adelaide Grande. And there's a car booked for Saturday and Sunday
if you want it. A Hyundai Grandeur.'
'Shit!'
'The plane leaves at twelve fifty-five tomorrow. The driver picks
you up again at the hotel, five-thirty Sunday. And you fly out at
seven. How's that sound?'
'Unreal.'
'You can pick the tickets up on the way to the airport tomorrow.
When you get there, say your name's Conrad Ullrich.'
'I'll tart my hair up and say I'm Kylie Minogue, Gary, I don't give a
fuck. How much do I owe you?'
'Ohh for you, Les,' Gary pressed the buttons on a calculator. 'Two
grand. You'll have to pay for the car down there. And your meals. But
you get a free continental breakfast in the Regency Club. All right?'
'I've got my credit card right here, Gary,' said Les.
Norton couldn't believe it. Some luck at last. He might be going
down, but at least he was going down in style. He gave Gary his
credit card details, got a few more details himself, and that was it.
All he had to do now was get back to Bondi, get his gear, pick up the
tickets, hope the cops weren't waiting for him and he was on his
way to Adelaide. It might turn out to be a wild goose chase, but if
he did find out who those other men in the photo were, at least it
was something to offer Tait and Caccano before they flung him in
the nick. What did he have to lose? Especially now. Norton's eyes
flicked back to the phone. He still had to ring Gerry. This time the
line was open.
'Hello Gerry. It's Les Norton.'
'Hullo Les,' replied Norton's accountant. 'How are you?'
'Good Gerry. Look, I'm sorry I didn't ring you yesterday. I
honestly forgot. I'm in the Blue Mountains and I've been trying to
ring you all day.'
'That's all right. I've been super busy. And we've had trouble with
the phones and the computers all day. But I spoke to Ivor for you.'
'You did? What did he say?'
'There is another insurance policy on that movie. Max King took
it out through his company, King Productions. With one other
beneficiary: Simone Mitchum.'
'What a lovely quinella,' said Les.
'The way it's structured, if anything happens to production, they
each get two thousand five hundred dollars a week for up to six
months. Then another hundred thousand. Plus their original
investment back.'
'Nice work.'
'Yes,' agreed Gerry. 'The premium was fairly stiff. But it's quite
clever how they worked it. If Leaving Bondi never gets off the ground,
it's in their best interests. And it's doubtful now it ever will. So
they're laughing.'
Les nodded and gritted his teeth. 'Laughing. Like a pair of hyenas.'
'Sorry Les. But... that's show business.'
'Yeah. Like no business I know. Okay. Thanks for that, Gerry.
I appreciate it.'
'Anytime Les. Bye.'
Norton replaced the phone and lay back on the bed. So. Max King
and Simone Mitchum, eh. Maybe one of them did it? It certainly
added another angle to the dangle. King especially. All those radio
do-dads on the film set. King could slip a remote control device in
amongst them, make sure he was safe, then detonate the bomb. And
no one would know. His arse was covered and with their money from
the insurance policy, he and Simone could go on to make more
award-winning movies. But how could you prove it? Not easily. Still.
It was something to go on if nothing eventuated in Adelaide. Les
smiled bitterly. Not for me though. My lawyers -- hopefully. I'll be in
the nick. Anyway. What now? Les swung his feet over the bed. Get
cleaned up and have a feed in the restaurant. Then have a quiet one
at home and pack my bags ready to split in the morning. I suppose
I'd better ring the maitre d and inform him Mr McNamara will be
dining alone tonight.
Les took his time having a shave and a shower then got dressed
again. Outside it had stopped raining, but the wind had picked up
and it was still bleak and cold. He had a read, but half the time he
kept thinking about his predicament and the room started to get that
gaol feel about it again. It certainly was a nice mess he'd got himself
into. Eventually he switched on the TV. The reception was awful. But
a repeat episode of Seinfeld got Les going again. The one where
George's mother catches him with a full hand going alone and starts
running around screaming: 'My son's a pervert. My son's a pervert.'
Still laughing, Les threw his leather jacket on and walked down to
the restaurant.
Angelo wasn't on. Instead Les got a fair-haired woman in a black
suit. She was extremely charming and polite. But when it came to
bow and scrape, she wasn't in the event compared to Angelo. Les got
a nice table facing the door and looked at the menu. What he had the
night before tasted that good he ordered the same; plus a Hahn
Premium, coffee and bread rolls: hold the sweets. Like the previous
night, the meal was delicious. Les put it on his tab, gave a tip and left.
He paused momentarily in the Kurrajong Room, but didn't feel like
sitting on his own listening to Super Hits of the Twenties and
Thirties. So he went straight to his room.
There was nothing on TV; and if there had been, the reception was
that bad it wouldn't have been worth watching anyway. Les opened The Portable Beat Reader. He'd finished all the Bukowski and
Kerouac. And after half a page of Joyce Johnson Les felt it'd be more
fun beating his meat. He closed the book and stared out the window
again into nothing except cold and darkness. It wasn't much of a
night. But Les felt anything would be better than sitting around like a
battery hen. What did it say out the front of that hotel yesterday?
Piano man Thursday night? Why not go and have a couple of quiet
beers and check it out. If I keep my head down I should be all right.
Les zipped up his leather jacket and walked out to the car.
Not a great deal was happening in Katoomba when Les got there.
A few taxis were parked in front of the tunnel to the railway station,
one or two people were walking by and that was about it. He parked
the car on a bus stop right outside the Kensington and walked up the
front steps.
There was one room as you entered, a small bar on the right then
a few stairs led up to another room at the back. Chairs and tables
dotted the red carpet and bench seats ran round the walls in the first
room. The usual booze posters and sepia photos of pioneer days
clung to the walls and a set of stairs on one side of the bar ran up to a
bistro. Built above the bar was a wooden stage where a bloke on
piano was hammering out Elton John's 'Benny And The Jets', aided
and abetted by another bloke on a guitar. About forty punters, mostly
men, were scattered around both rooms. There were a few attractive
girls and three of the ugliest lesbians Norton had ever seen, wearing
Levi jackets and gelled mullets. Sitting along the opposite side of the
bar under the stage were four young blokes in sweatshirts and
baseball caps, sucking schooners and smoking cigarettes. They were
hair raiding the musicians and making plenty of noise in general,
somewhere between boisterous fun and drunken attitude. Apart from
them, everybody else was quietly drinking and the dress code ranged
from corduroy trousers to plastic raincoats, tracksuits to black
dresses. The only exception was an overweight woman with a face
like a pie tin standing at the bar wearing a long grey woollen dress.
She had copper-coloured hair, combed into two braids, junky green
earrings and wrapped loosely round her neck was a green, tartan
scarf. Sitting on the bar was a cheap bottle of sparkling domestic in
an ice bucket and she was carrying on like she'd just won lotto. Les
edged his way around her and got a middy of VB then found a vacant
bench seat and a table. He sat back looking up at the stage and had an enjoyable sip of beer as the two musicians gave it to Neil Young's
'Heart of Gold'.
The first beer went down easy and was just what Les needed.
Feeling a slight glow, he walked over and ordered another one,
getting a heavy once up and down from the woman with the ice
bucket. Les half smiled back at her and returned to his seat. The two
musicians got stuck into Stevie Ray Vaughn's 'Pride and Joy'. Then the
piano man announced they were taking a break and he was going to
relieve his bladder. One of the young blokes at the bar held up a half
empty schooner glass and yelled up to him.
'Here. Fill this up while you're at it.'
All his mates thought it was as funny as all get up and fell about laughing like drains. Les thought it wasn't a bad call and finished his second beer. He got up for a third and got another once up and down
from the woman with the ice bucket. Again Les half smiled back and
returned to his seat. Over the top of his middy Les could feel her watching him. Finally, she picked up her ice bucket and walked over.
'Mind if I join you?' she said in a throaty voice that vibrated
through her double chins.
Les looked at her like she had a tarantula crawling over her face.
'Yeah, why not?' he answered.
Tartan scarf plonked her ice bucket on the table in front of Les
and crammed her ample backside into a chair. 'I'm Lareina,' she said.
'How are you Lareina,' replied Les. 'I'm Marvin.'
'Nice to meet you, Marvin.'
'Yeah. Likewise.'
'Are you from round here Marvin?'
Les shook his head. 'Stock and Bingle.'
'Oh?' said Lareina. 'What do you do out there?'
'I'm a rabbit trapper.'
'Really. I like to eat rabbits.'
'You'd eat anything,' said Les.
'What was that?'
'I said, you can eat them with anything.'
'Yes. Especially curried.' Lareina swallowed the glass of wine she
brought with her and poured another one. 'So what are you doing in
Katoomba, Marvin?' she asked.
'I'm here for the Songs of the Wind Festival,' answered Les.
Lareina gave a squeal of delight. 'What a coincidence. I'm a
playwright.'
'You're a what?'
'I write plays.' Lareina nodded to the bottle of cheap fizz. 'That's
why I'm celebrating. They're performing one of my plays this
weekend. And I've won a grant to write another one.'
Les looked at her impassively. 'Fair ... dinkum?'
'Yes. It's called The Sculptured Chrysanthemum'
'Go ... on.' Les had a mouthful of beer and stared at Lareina. Shit!
How do I find them? I've got to get a T-shirt made with Come and
Talk to Me, I Love Idiots printed on the front. And a matching cap.
Lareina started waffling on about her fabulous play and how Les
shouldn't miss it. She could get him a ticket. Then the musicians
returned and started flogging Cat Stevens's 'Where Will The Children
Play'. While this was going on Les didn't notice a bloke wearing a
disposal-store army jacket, jeans and black Timberlands walk in. He
had dark hair and an earring and was walking to the hotel across the
railway line when he saw the mud spattered green Berlina out the
front of the Kensington. Inside there was no missing Norton's craggy
red head. The bloke got a middy and quietly watched Les from
the bar.
By now Les had had enough of Lareina, and the music wasn't
doing anything for him either when Lareina pulled out a packet of
Winfields from somewhere in her dress. She groped around for her
lighter, got a cigarette going then managed to knock Les's beer over
when she picked up her glass of wine.
'Oh I'm sorry,' she giggled, blowing a mouthful of smoke in
Norton's face as she flicked ash over the table.
'That's quite all right,' said Les. 'You did me a favour.' He rose from
the table and walked straight out the door to his car.
Fuckin fat pain in the arse, Les scowled, zipping his leather jacket
up against the cold. I was enjoying that beer. Three would have been
just nice, too. He licked his lips. I suppose I can have another one
back at the Medlow. He was about to get in the car when he noticed
the hotel across the railway line. Why don't I have one more in there.
It's not that far and some fresh mountain air would be good after
putting up with her. They might have some music going, too. Les
shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and started walking.
A tunnel ran under the railway station, and the taxi drivers parked
in front of the nearby shops thought Les was an approaching fare and
nearly ate him. Les smiled as he walked past and took the steps on his
right. An opening to the station went off to the left and beneath a
grey metal girder the tunnel ran straight ahead. It was fairly well lit.
There were some framed posters on the walls and at the end of the
wall on the right was a long mural of an indigo night sky full of stars,
viewed from over a row of pine trees. Les gave it a grudging nod of
approval as he walked past then turned right coming up at a
pedestrian crossing leading to the hotel.
It was a fairly big hotel featuring a small beer garden out the front
beneath an art-deco style verandah and windows. A blue awning with
Fosters printed on it swung round to the bars on the right. Les
crossed over to the footpath and walked in the glass doors at the end.
Inside, one long wooden bar curved around to the left to an alcove
with a fireplace. On the right was a games room and in front of that a pool room with one unoccupied pool table. Through a corridor was a lounge with a small ticket office next to a door with a sign, Bands
Wed and Fri Nights $3 Admission. The decor was mainly brown and
yellow, with old wooden fittings and lights hanging from the ceiling
on chrome pipes. The fire in the alcove was going and about fifteen
punters were spread along the bar including three very sour-faced
blokes at the games room end wearing dark tracksuits and trainers.
Les had a quick look around, then ordered a middy of VB and walked
down to the alcove at the other end.
There was no music and absolutely nothing to perv on as Les
sipped his beer and gazed at the fire over a table full of drunks. The
crowd was older and more into plain drinking than at the other
hotel. It might have been warm and the beer wasn't all that bad, but it
was just too boring. Gazing absently at the fire Les didn't notice the
bloke in the army jacket walk in the same door he did. He went
straight up to the sour-faced men in the tracksuits and pointed to
Les. Their sour faces suddenly turned even sourer. Well, there's not
much doing here, thought Les. I think I might call it a night. I'd have
been better off staying home. No. If it hadn't been for that
wobbegong putting her fat head in at that other place it would have
been all right. The music wasn't that bad, and the beer was good. Les
finished his middy, put the glass on the bar and left through the
nearest door.
Walking back through the tunnel, Les stopped momentarily to
have another look at the mural and noticed the artist had included a
few UFOs in the background. I suppose on those clear nights up this

way they'd see a few strange lights in the sky now and again,
chuckled to himself. Woody should move up here. She'd cough in he
rompers if she saw that mural. He'd started walking again when aril
angry voice shouted out from the end of the tunnel, echoing round!
the walls.
'Hey, you in the fuckin leather jacket.'
Les stopped and turned around. 'Are you talking to me?' he asked
politely.
'You're the only fuckin one here, cunt.'
The three men from the bar, plus the one in the army jacket,
marched up to Les. The one doing the shouting had dark hair and a
flattened nose, pushed into a mean, sallow face. He was the biggest.
The man in the army jacket was about medium build and another
one on Norton's right was tall with short brown hair and looked like
he might be able to handle himself. The fourth bloke was skinny with
a bony face full of acne, and although he was doing his best to look
tough, Les felt he was there only to make up the numbers. The four
men formed a half circle around Les, who was standing a couple of
metres out from the wall.
'What seems to be the trouble fellahs?' smiled Les, taking his
hands from his pockets.
The biggest bloke glared at him. 'You were out Medlow Bath today.
Weren't you?'
Les shook his head. 'I only just got here a couple of hours ago.'
'Fuckin bullshit!' The big bloke nodded to the one in the army
jacket. 'Jimmy was working out there and saw you parked in Red
Gum Road. You were cruising around all day.'
Les looked at the bloke in the army jacket. 'I think Colin Combat
needs to get his eyes tested.'
'I don't need my eyes tested,' said the bloke in the army jacket.
'That's your Berlina outside the Kensington. And that was you out
Medlow Bath today.'
'You got me mixed up with someone else,' said Les.
'We ain't got you mixed up with no one,' said the big hood. 'And I
got one dog dead, and another in the vet's with a fractured skull.'
'Well,' suggested Les, 'maybe you shouldn't let your dogs roam the
streets. Keep them on a lead and they won't get hurt in the traffic'
The big hood's face reddened with anger. 'They didn't get hurt in
no traffic you cunt. Somebody hit them with something. Something
hard. Like this.'
The big hood reached under his tracksuit with his right hand and
whipped out a length of pipe. He raised it above his head then swung
it at Norton's face. Les had been expecting something like this. He
moved in closer, caught the hood's wrist with his left hand, gripped
him at the elbow with his right, then twisted left, turning the big hood
with him. When the hood's back was facing the tunnel wall, Les swept
his right leg away and banged the back of his head into the wall. He
followed this with a smashing right knee into the hood's groin. The
big hood gave a yelp of pain that echoed round the tunnel and
dropped the length of pipe. Les let go of him and snatched up the
pipe. In almost the same movement, Les backhanded it against the
side of Army Jacket's right knee. Army Jacket gasped in a breath then
howled and grabbed at his shattered knee. Before he could howl again,
Les gave him an uppercut with the pipe, splitting his chin open and
dumping him on his back. Les kept going round in a half circle with
the length of pipe and collected the brown-haired bloke across one
side of the face, then swung it back across the other. The first blow
broke Brown Hair's jaw, the second one smashed several teeth. Brown
Hair clutched at his face as blood started oozing through his fingers,
then turned his back on Les and sank to his knees. Les split the back of
his head open with a quick rap of the pipe and he pitched forward,
unconscious. The big hood was sitting on his backside holding his
groin: stunned and in a lot of pain, but still conscious. He looked up
at Les and the last thing he saw was the length of pipe coming towards
his face before it crunched into his forehead, splitting it to the bone.
Blood poured into his eyes, he let go of his groin and fell back
amongst the others, out cold. This left the last bloke looking down at
his mates horrified. His poor, skinny, acned face was contorted with
fear and a trickle of urine had started running down the inside of his
jeans. Les poked the length of pipe at his groin.
'Hello me old,' said Les. 'How are they hanging? Long and loose
and full of juice?'
'Ohh look mate,' begged the skinny hood. 'I had nothing to do
with this. Fair dinkum. I was just sitting in the pub. I don't even come
from round here. I'm from Muswellbrook. I drive a bread cart. I
swear mate. I hardly know these blokes.'
Les gave the skinny hood a cursory once up and down. 'You know
something? I believe you. You're just an innocent bystander.'
'That's right mate. I'm telling you the truth. Honest I am. You got
to believe me.' The trickle in the bloke's jeans turned into a torrent.
'I've never lied in my life.'
'Yeah. You're an honest man,' said Les. 'So I'll tell you what I'm
gonna do.' The skinny hood yelped with terror as Les jammed the
length of pipe up under his chin and pinned him against the wall.
'Now listen to me, you pimply faced streak of cat shit,' hissed
Norton, his eyes about an inch away from the hood's. 'I'm a secret
agent with the taxation department. I'm up here looking for an
Israeli banker, stole fifty million dollars from the government. So
I'm not in the slightest bit interested in you. Or your shitty mates.
You listening?'
'Yeah mate. Yeah,' gasped the bloke. 'Every word mate.'
'So tell your friends when they're back on their feet: keep their
mouths shut about what just happened, and I won't tell the drug
squad about their little hydro operation in Red Gum Avenue. You got
that?'
'Yeah mate. Every word. No one'll say nothing.'
'Good. Because I don't need the paperwork. But if you don't, you
know what I'll do?'
The bloke shook his head. 'No mate. What?'
Les shoved the pipe between the bloke's legs. 'I'll come back and
audit you.'
Les could see the poor bloke was seconds away from crapping his
pants as well as pissing himself. He wiped the hair and blood off the
pipe on the bloke's tracksuit top and left him.
The taxi drivers were watching Les as he came up the stairs. Les
tucked the piece of pipe under his arm, but he thought one driver
saw it. When Les got to his car, the piano man and his mate were pounding the life out of Fleetwood Mac's 'Don't Stop'. Les opened the
door and threw the piece of pipe on the passenger seat. Whether any
of the cab drivers took any notice as he drove past, Les wasn't sure. A
couple of kilometres down the highway, Les opened the window and
flung the piece of pipe into the bush. He wound the window back up
and drove to the hotel.
Back in his room, Les packed his jeans away and changed into his
blue tracksuit. He got a little bottle of Jim Beam from the mini-bar,
poured it into a glass, topped it with water and swallowed some. It
went down well, so Les swallowed some more. He sat on the edge of
the bed and looked at the silent TV. What just happened should have
had a funny side to it; especially when the skinny bloke piddled
himself. But Les wasn't laughing. He was worried. And he felt like
kicking himself in the arse. I knew I should have stayed home. There's
cops looking for me all over the state. But no. I have to go to a fuckin
pub and get into a fight. I need rooting. Les took another mouthful
of bourbon. When those heroes drag their sorry arses off to hospital,
the doctor or the nurses are going to call the police. Then there's
those taxi drivers. They couldn't miss me. And I'm sure one of them
saw me with that iron bar. Shit! My only chance is if they don't go to
hospital before I get out of here tomorrow. Yeah, right. If they don't
get their heads stitched up they'll bleed like stuck pigs all night. Les
looked at his bags packed and ready to go. I should piss off now. But
where am I gonna go? I can't hang around Sydney or my place. I can't
win. I'm fucked if I stay here. And I'm fucked if I go home. Les
caught his reflection in the mirror next to the bathroom. You're a
nice goose, Norton.
He finished the first bourbon and had another. The second one
settled him down a little. Yeah, but surely those hillbillies wouldn't
say anything after I drummed it into that dill's head about their
hydro system? They couldn't be that stupid. No. I think I'm pretty
sweet. And by the time the cops sort all the shit out, how are they
going to find me? They could if they wanted to. But I reckon they'd
have better things on their minds than a bunch of wallys getting a
belting. They're probably local hoods anyway. Les took another sip of
bourbon. Yeah. I think I'm drama queening here just a bit. That's me,
Les Norton aka Bette Davis. He caught his reflection in the mirror
again. You dill. Les was about to switch the TV on when there was an
urgent knock on the door.
Norton's blood went cold, and this time he did start to panic. Ohh
shit! They're here already. Fuck! How did they find me so quick?
God! What am I going to do? He looked at the window. It was a ten
metre drop. Don't answer the door? The cops'd smash the fuckin
thing in. Les was trapped. There was only one thing he could do.
Answer the door and face the music. Bugger it. Two days he'd lasted.
Two lousy, bloody days. And just when it looked like there might have
been a tiny light at the end of the tunnel. With a heart full of lead, Les
opened the door.
'Mr Forrest McNamara?' It was a woman.
Les gave a double blink. 'Yeah. That's me.'
'My name is Odessa Hatfield. I'm a friend of Blythe Selby's.'
'You are? Well ... come on in, Odessa. Tell me what I can do for you.'
Totally flabbergasted, Norton stepped aside to let the young woman in. She was almost as tall as Les, with straggly auburn hair
combed up at the back. Her face was strong, with a firm mouth and
wild green eyes and totally devoid of make-up. A thick black cardigan
hung loosely over a maroon dress clinging to her whippy body and
across one shoulder was a small leather sling bag. Clutched in her
hands was a manuscript. It wasn't far from stepping inside to the
mini-bar near the end of Norton's bed, but by the time she got there,
Les noticed Odessa had a shapely arse with a swing like a new
back door.
Odessa turned around, her chin up, a look of defiance on her face.
When she spoke her voice was firm yet eloquent. 'If I've barged in on
you like this Mr McNamara,' she said, 'I'm sorry. But Blythe told me
you're looking for poets.'
'Yeah. We sure are,' replied Les. 'Are you a poet?'
'Yes,' asserted Odessa.
'Unreal,' said Les. 'So ... what have you got for me, Odessa?'
'This.' Odessa thrust her manuscript at Norton.
Les took the manuscript and looked at the title, Silicone Thoughts
and Plastic Dreams. 'Are these all your original works, Odessa?'
'Yes.'
'I thought so. All right. Well why don't you relax and make
yourself a drink while I read one.'
'Thank you, Mr McNamara.'
Odessa flustered nervously round the mini-bar and made herself a
scotch and water while Les fumbled around opening her manuscript,
still not quite sure what he was doing. Odessa watched intently as Les
sat on the bed and chose a poem at random. It was called 'Muriel's
Milk Box'.
Talk to me in lecherous detail,
my heart demands it.
Is there cream,
yoghurt,
Lite-White,
Ricotta.
I swim in a sea of masochistic love,
with chocolate sharks,
and raspberry stingrays.
Les closed the manuscript and looked at Odessa. Odessa stared
back challengingly.
'Well. What do you think?' she said. It was a demand as much as a
question.
'What do I think?' answered Les. 'I'm not sure how to put this,
Odessa. But you're definitely in the same league as Blythe Selby.'
'I am?' Odessa gave Les a double blink.
'Reckon. Of course I've only read one poem. But hey ...' Les made
an open handed gesture.
'So you like them?'
'Of course. They're great.'
Odessa fell back against the mini-bar. 'Oh, I'm so thrilled,' she said.
Les smiled serenely at Odessa. 'But I do have to ask you
something, Odessa, before we continue.'
'And what's that, Mr McNamara?'
'Are there any poems in here about sex?'
Odessa shook her head almost imperceptibly. 'I'm trying to keep
sex out of it. At this stage.'
'Fair enough, Odessa,' nodded Les. 'What about blow jobs?' Les tapped the manuscript with an index finger. 'Is there any chance of
finding a polish in here?'
Odessa's green eyes flashed. 'Mr McNamara,' she smiled. 'There's a
sheila in there could suck a medicine ball through a didgeridoo.'
Les nodded cognizantly. 'Did Blythe mention my company's contractual arrangements? Half the advance initially. The rest on
publication.'
'Blythe told me everything,' said Odessa. 'Everything.'
'Excellent,' beamed Les. 'Now, why don't I join you in a drink and
I'll read another poem.'
'Do that, Mr McNamara.'
Les made another bourbon and found his hands were shaking
slightly. What just happened was an astonishing, almost unbelievable
turnaround. He had a mouthful of bourbon and settled down at one end of the bed. Odessa cradled her scotch and sat at the other.
Les chose another poem at random. It was called 'Prismatic
Impulsiveness'.
Moonbeams and rainbows,
nailed her to a wall of proclamation.
But despair and scandal
would never be the sword of righteousness,
in the hands of the separatists.
Nor reticence,
the slings and arrows
of the nebulous ungodly.
Les closed the manuscript and looked at Odessa. 'I don't think I need to read any more, Odessa. Just give me your phone number.
And I'll tell you how you can contact me.'
'Marvellous,' said Odessa. 'Oh, I'm so glad I was brazen enough to
call around.'
'Me too,' said Les.
She wrote down her phone number and address and her phone
number at work. Odessa lived in Blackheath and worked for the
council. Les gave her the same phone number he gave Blythe and told
her to contact him through Mr Edwards.
'So there you go, Odessa,' said Les, placing her phone number in
his wallet.
'You're on your way. I can envisage dual readings. You and Blythe.'
'This is amazing,' said Odessa. 'Absolutely amazing.'
'It sure is,' winked Les. 'Now, Odessa,' he said, undoing his
tracksuit pants, 'there's some other contractual arrangements need to
be taken care of. I've got a silent partner who'd like to get involved in
this deal.' Les whipped out Mr Wobbly and gave him a couple of
shakes. Mr Wobbly raised his head up to see what was going on and
liked what he saw. 'He's in public relations. You know anything about
public relations Odessa?'
'I certainly do.' Odessa moved along the bed. 'And you know
something Mr McNamara? You're even better looking than Blythe
said you were.'
'Call me Forrest, Odessa.'
Odessa was cool. She kissed Les and let him slip his hand under her
dress and give her boobs a squeeze. They were round and firm with
hard pointy nipples and her kisses were warm and sweet. It wasn't long
before Norton had a rock hard boner and Mr Wobbly was frothing at'
the mouth. Odessa gave it a few strokes then slipped her mouth over the knob. Les felt a shiver run up and down his spine as Mr Wobbly started to get very red and angry. Odessa got right into it, adding some
discreet moaning and groaning to show she was getting off a bit
herself. It wasn't long before Les was spreadeagled on the bed, his eyes
closed, sighing with sweet agony. Odessa hit the vinegar strokes and Les
felt like he was levitating above the bed as he let go. Odessa took the lot. Licked her lips and looked around for more. Les collapsed against
the pillows; eyes rolled back in his head and his toes twitching.
Odessa went to the bathroom and came back adjusting her dress.
Les pulled his tracksuit pants up and tucked Mr Wobbly back into his
little bed.
'I might leave now, Forrest,' said Odessa.
'Okay,' replied Les. 'I'll walk you to your car.'
'You don't have to. Stay where you are.'
'All right.'
'You won't lose my manuscript, will you?'
Les shook his head. 'I'll copy it as soon as I get back to the office.
You've got other copies just to be on the safe side?'
'Oh yes.'
'Good.'
Odessa gave Norton a kiss. 'Goodnight, Forrest,' she smiled. 'I look
forward to seeing you again.'
Les smiled back. The too, Odessa. It's been a delight.'
Odessa stepped out the door, closed it behind her, and was gone.
Les looked at the door for a moment then placed Odessa's
manuscript on the table and stared out the window. Suddenly he felt
beat. It wasn't just driving around and being stuck in the car half the
day. Or the beers, the fight and the romp with Odessa. When he heard
that knock on the door, Les thought he was gone. When he opened it
and it wasn't the police, the feeling was almost indescribable. Shock,
followed by sheer elation. Like diving into a pool full of chilled
champagne. Les knew the cops wouldn't be around now. He could
relax. He cleaned his teeth, left his tracksuit on then crawled under the
doona and switched off the bed lamp. Norton's last thoughts before
drifting off were that he couldn't really blame that big bloke and his
mates for wanting to sort him out after he'd killed one dog and
fractured the other one's skull. But he honestly didn't think he'd hit
the dogs that hard. And maybe he shouldn't have smashed the blokes
as much as he did. But on the other hand, what would those blokes
have done to him if he hadn't got hold of the iron bar? He probably
wouldn't be walking. And Odessa wouldn't be getting a contract with
Roulette Publishing. Les yawned and jammed his head into the
pillows. Anyway, it was all behind him. Tomorrow was another day.
And with a bit of luck he'd be in Adelaide and something might turn
up. Les yawned again. It wasn't long and he was out like a light.
Les was out of bed, washed and in the breakfast room by eight
wearing the same tracksuit; not being out to impress and knowing he
was only going to be sitting in his car all morning he didn't bother

getting changed. He filled a bowl with cereal and fruit and a plate
with bacon and eggs, got some toast and coffee and found a table
overlooking the Megalong Valley. Outside it was cold and raining
again. He didn't bother turning on the radio or reading the paper.
David would only be screaming his name to the rafters and some
journalist would be doing the same. Les felt what he didn't know
wouldn't hurt him. After one last cup of coffee he checked out, and
by nine o'clock Les was in his car and heading for Sydney. He'd
worked it so he had plenty of time to get home, grab a change of clothes, pick up his tickets and get to the airport, yet not be hanging around long enough for the police to arrest him. If he could make it
to the airport Les felt he'd be able to hide in Golden Wing and he'd
be all right.
Because of the weather, the drive down was slow and Les didn't I
like being a fugitive one bit. Five kilometres the other side of Linden highway patrol car pulled in behind him and he began to sweat. He
kept to the left and drove like Grandma Duck, when the cop
suddenly switched on his siren making the butterflies in Norton's
stomach start line dancing. But the cop went round him and pulled
over a driver towing a trailer with no brake lights. Les exhaled audibly. That's it. Time for some music. He found a tape and Jools Holland and his Rhythm and Blues Orchestra started tickling the
ivories with 'Travelling Blues'. After that the trip went noticeably
smoother. The other side of Penrith Bob Margolin was cranking out
'Up and In' like there was no tomorrow and B. B. King had just belted out 'Pauly's Birthday Boogie' when Les switched off the stereo and came down O'Brien Street Bondi. He pulled up on the corner of Cox Avenue and Lamrock and peered through the windscreen. He
couldn't see any police cars out the front of his house or the State
Protection Unit hiding somewhere. Oh well, thought Les. Here goes
nothing. He screeched to a halt outside Chez Norton, grabbed his
bags then quickly locked the car and sprinted inside.
There were two messages on the answering machine. Les didn't
bother to listen to them. It would only be Price or Eddie telling him
what an idiot he was and he could do without that. Instead Les rang
for a taxi. While he was waiting, he dumped his dirty clothes out of
his bag, filled it with fresh ones and whatever else he thought he'd
need in Adelaide then changed into a clean pair of jeans and a black
Lee Kernaghan T-shirt. A horn bipping out the front told him the
taxi had arrived. Les threw his leather jacket on, picked up his bags
and Wednesday's paper from where he'd left it in the kitchen, then
made sure the house was locked and ran outside.
'Clovelly Road. Then out to the airport,' said Les, jumping in the
back seat of the taxi.
'No worries,' replied the driver.
Les buried his head in the paper, kept quiet and avoided any eye
contact with the driver. Gary wasn't in his office when the taxi pulled
up out the front of Travelabout Clovelly. One of the girls working
there handed Les his tickets and wished him a good trip. The traffic
wasn't too bad and he was outside Ansett Departures before he had a
chance to re-read the sports pages. At the desk it was automatic drive.
Mr Ullrich had his bags tagged Priority and was politely told his
plane was leaving from gate sixteen. Les couldn't help the butterflies
fluttering a little as he passed through the uniforms at security, but
nothing happened. Safely through there, Les stopped at a newsagency
and bought a map. Suburban and Regional Adelaide. He took the
escalator to Golden Wing, got a smile from the girl at reception when
he showed his card, and stepped inside.
There were a few casually dressed people in Golden Wing, but it
was mostly suits waffling into mobiles or using the phones provided.
Les found a table in the corner, made a cup of tea, got a plate of
cheese and crackers and a Bulletin and spread his map out. The drive
to Victor Harbor looked like a piece of piss. Les saw Mount Compass
on the map and from there, Victor Harbor was almost straight down
a highway, sitting in a long, wide bay. You can't tell which way the
train went by looking at the tracks, thought Les, and you can't tell
much about a town by looking at a map. At least I know where it is.
Les folded his map up, put it in his backpack and read the Bulletin
while he kept an eye on the other punters. By the time he had
another cup of tea and a few more crackers it was time to board the
plane. Les had the very front seat to himself and plenty of leg room
and one of the flight attendants had dark hair and a pretty good pair
of legs in her black stockings. She gave Les a nice smile and a glass of
orange juice. She came back to make sure Mr Ullrich's bag was
stowed in front of him and they were on their way. Les had decided
to brush The Portable Beat Reader for the time being. He'd read and
heard enough nutty poetry to last him a lifetime. Instead he got a
book from Warren's room. Once A Jolly Swagperson by Lawrence
Held. Politically Correct Tales For Our Times. Les had just finished
'The Differently Statured Adult Male of Notre Dame' when it was
time for lunch. Salad with sesame soya vinaigrette and mixed grill
with honey carrots and sauteed wild mushrooms. This went down
easily with another glass of orange juice and Les picked up his book
again. He'd just finished 'Beauty and the Superficially NonHumyn
Animal' when the pilot announced they were making their descent
into Adelaide. The plane bumped down on the tarmac and a few
minutes later Mr Ullrich got another smile as he disembarked.
Adelaide airport was nowhere near as big as Kingsford Smith. It
was only a short walk to the arrivals lounge and standing on the
right, wearing a grey uniform, cap and sunglasses, was a driver
holding a sign: ULLRICH. Les walked up to him a little cautiously.
'I'm Conrad Ullrich.'
The driver was about thirty, dark complexioned and looked fit.
'Thank you, Mr Ullrich,' he replied pensively. 'I'm Vincent. I'll get
your luggage.'
Les followed Vincent over to the carousel without saying anything.
Vincent seemed to expect this. Norton's bag arrived, Vincent picked it
up and Les followed him out to a white Ford LTD and got in the
back. The weather was cloudy and cold and it looked like there had
been some light rain. Vincent didn't say anything as they left the
airport. Les thought it might be best if he did the same and peered out the window.
After the smog, traffic gridlocks and high rise of Sydney, Adelaide
was like a big country town. Long flat roads, roomy wooden houses and plenty of parks and trees. A sign ahead said Burbidge Road A-6
City. Further on Les noticed a nice old hotel with a verandah round it called the New Market. Before long they were in the city. Vince turned this way and that then came out on a wide, straight road
divided in the middle. There were office blocks on the right and
railway lines on the left. Behind the railway lines was a park with a
river running through it. Vincent turned left into a curved driveway
and pulled up in front of the Adelaide Grande.
The hotel looked quite swish. Thirty storeys high, plenty of
chrome and glass, neat gardens and a split-level restaurant out the
front. On the right was a casino. Vincent got Norton's bag from the
boot and gave it to a porter with a brass luggage trolley then opened
Norton's door.
'I'll see you at five-thirty on Sunday, Mr Ullrich,' he said.
'Okay. See you then, Vincent. Thanks,' replied Les.
'Enjoy your stay in Adelaide, sir.' Vincent got back in the LTD and
drove off.
'Just the one bag, sir?' asked a porter in a black vest.
'Yes.'
'This way, sir.'
Les followed the porter into the lobby. Inside was even more swish
than out. A ring of marble and gold columns rose out of a shiny
parquet floor and circled a set of marble stairs with brass railings,
leading down to a ballroom and function centre. The lifts were on the
left next to a spacious bar called the Torrens Room. Just round from
this were the doors to a sundeck overlooking the river, then an open
doorway to a large dining room. To the right from the main entrance
was the concierge, then behind a barricade of shiny black marble was
the reception desk. Les followed the porter to reception. Checking in
was automatic drive again. An extremely pleasant woman in a blue
suit soon fixed everything with a minimum of fuss. Les signed in as
C. Ullrich, Clovelly Road, Sydney and was given his key and charge
card. He then checked with the concierge about the car. No problems.
Avis was straight across the road, the car was available at nine, bring
it back to the hotel and it would be valet parked for him. Les followed the porter across to the lifts and even though Les would have made
two of him, he let the porter carry his bag and they swooshed up to
the twenty-third floor.
As he stepped out of the lift, Les walked to the windows at the end
of the lift lobby to check out the view. On the right was the park and
the river, ahead in the distance was the ocean and to the left a ring of
hills surrounding the city. Walking to his room Les looked down two
floors onto the Regency Club, a tastefully furnished, lovely green area
with a bubbling fountain, servery and a bar where Gary had said the
continental breakfast was on the house. Les couldn't wait for
breakfast.
After the Medlow, Norton's room was like a home unit with a
fabulous view over the city, the casino, and all the way to the distant
hills on the left. There was a queen-size bed, a TV, ample furniture
and wardrobe space and a marble bathroom with a shower and spa.
The mini-bar was well stocked with assorted booze, chocolates and
nibblies. And to think I would have settled for a room at the Y, Les
chuckled to himself. He gave the porter two dollars and got a bottle of Heineken from the mini-bar. While he sipped that, Les unpacked then checked out the hotel directory and the room service menu. He had another look at the city as he finished his beer and noticed the clock radio: Adelaide was half an hour behind Sydney. It just gets better. Now I've got thirty minutes up my sleeve. Les lay back on the
bed, closed his eyes and wondered what to do. The bed was very
comfortable and Les lay on it longer than he intended. Another
minute and he would have dozed off. He got up, splashed some water
on his face and took in the view over the city again. Why don't I go
for a walk? Check out beautiful downtown Adelaide. I won't get
much chance tomorrow. Or Sunday. Les threw his leather jacket on
and got the lift to the lobby.
He walked past the entrance to the casino and turned left at the
old railway station. Les hadn't gone five metres before he tensed up.
Three uniform cops were standing just inside the station. Les
watched them out the corner of his eye, but they didn't appear to
notice him. Shit! This is ridiculous, he told himself, I'll finish up in
the rathouse. Les went right at King William then strolled past an
office block and a group of girls huddled on the footpath, puffing
desperately at their cigarettes. They were all dressed in black or
purple with long dark hair and chalk-white skin. Very different to the
girls at Bondi. After unexpectedly seeing the wallopers, Les felt like
something soothing. A Jack Daniels or a coffee would be nice. He
sprung a health bar that was all bright colours and vinyl stools called
the Boost Juice Bistro. Les ordered a shot of wheatgrass and a Brain
Boost. Carrot, beetroot and apple with ginseng and ginkgo. The
wheatgrass tasted exactly like licking the blades on a lawn mower, but
you got a slice of lemon for a chaser. The brain booster was delicious
and went down splendidly. It might have been Norton's imagination,
but as he strode off, his head did feel clearer and there seemed to be
an extra kick in his step as he crossed King William Street to check
out Rundle Mall.
Les found himself walking down a long flat mall crammed with
shops on either side and entrances to arcades and malls with more
shops. There were crowds of shoppers and groups of unfamiliar mall
hangers amongst the shoppers. Skinheads wearing black Tshirts
with Korn, Fear Factory, Witchery and Crypt on the front and pale
skinned Gothic chicks wearing dark dresses and layers of weird dark
make-up who looked like they'd just flown in on broomsticks. Fruit
barrows and paper stalls were scattered along the middle and near
one fruit barrow were several bronze pigs, one on its haunches eating
out of a garbage tin. Les wished he'd brought his camera. There were
plenty of music shops catering mainly for thrash and grungeheads.
Les had a look in one. It was all dark and mysterious with dark and
mysterious-looking staff. On a bookshelf was a whole section on
Wicca, Paganism, Ritual Magic, Goddess Studies. I wonder if I could
get The Beach Boys Greatest Hits in here and a few Barbara Cartlands.
I don't think so. Les crossed an intersection and now it was hotels,
restaurants and sidewalk cafes. The mall ended near a gift shop
selling cute little portable fountains. Les crossed over and came down
the other side. It was much the same, except for the ubiquitous
McDonalds and the usual kids, with faces full of pimples, that like to
hang out the front. Les walked back to where he started, crossed over
from the mall and found himself in Hindley Street.
Traffic drove back and forth and now there was a noticeable
sleaze. Head shops, disposal stores, adult book shops, triple X videos, video games arcades, Wild Night Review, takeaway food shops,
tourist trap hotels. Bigger and better Gothic shops. Strip joints. Hello, thought Les, I'm home. I'm back at the Cross. All that's missing is a
few hundred assorted hookers and junkies. Although he knew he
shouldn't go near it, something about the local police station
fascinated Les and he had to have a discreet look. There was only one
young cop in there with his head down and his window was shaded
by a Venetian blind, so his view was restricted. What fascinated Les
was the other window. It was covered in posters for missing persons.
missing. missing. can you unravel the mystery? do you have a clue
in Michael's murder, reward, disappearance, suspected murder.
There were photos of at least forty missing people, most of them
young girls. Not counting all the Murder-Reward posters. Christ,
thought Les, that's a lot of missing people for a small city. Then he
remembered he'd heard a few stories about South Australia. They had some good murders and things in Crow Eater Territory. It wasn't
long ago they found eight bodies stuffed in barrels in an old bank
vault. They still hadn't found out what happened to the three
Beaumont children. I'll bet there's a few Jeffrey Dahmers and Charles
Mansons running around out there, mused Les. What about all those
Witchcraft shops? And those spooky looking Gothics? There was one
bright light in Hindley Street, a music shop called The Blue Note. It
had the best selection of blues and rock 'n' roll music Les had ever
seen, plus Latino and Cuban and all that. There were blues bands Les
had never heard of. The proprietor was a friendly young bloke
wearing a stars and stripes vest with his hair combed across his
forehead in two thick bangs. He offered Les assistance. But how was
Les going to tell him that if he wasn't going to gaol on Monday he'd
have bought half his shop out? Les browsed round for a while,
drooling over the CDs and told the bloke he'd be back.
Outside, Les noticed it was getting dark and took a glance at his
watch. Across the road was a lane leading down to the Grande. There
was a hotel on one corner with an enclosed verandah around the top
and an unused picture theatre on the other. Les crossed Hindley
Street and walked down, passing a dirty little alley on the left with a
skip bin out the front. Further down on the right was the foyer of
another glitzy hotel that ran down to a bar on the corner. Les had a
quick peek in the window as he went past. It looked all right; black
furnishings and shiny chrome fittings. But not many customers. Les
waited for the traffic then jogged over to the Grande.
Back in his room Les sucked on another Heineken and stared out
the window as the lights came on across the city. Now what will I do?
he asked himself. I know, there's a heated pool downstairs and it
doesn't close till nine. Why don't I have a mullet and bream. I tossed
my Speedos in before I left. Les changed into his black swimmers and
got a white bathrobe out of the wardrobe. He took a nice fluffy towel
from the bathroom and barefooted it for the lift down to the pool.
The pool was on the third floor, down a corridor and in the open.
When Les stepped outside, the wind felt like it was coming straight
from Antarctica. Shit! I don't know if this is such a good idea, he
shivered. No wonder I've got it to myself. When he dropped his robe
the wind flayed him like an icy whip. Oh well, here goes nothing. Les
bolted across the sundeck and plunged straight in. It might have been
cold out, but the water was beautiful. At least ten degrees warmer.
Even though the pool was only fifteen metres long, Les started doing
laps like he was Ian Thorpe. Freestyle, breaststroke, backstroke any
stroke or style you like. It was great and the water seemed to wash
away his cares. It was almost like he was in Adelaide on holidays. Les
flopped around, duck dived, lay on his back and spurted water in the
air. Soon he noticed people looking down at him from the rooms
above. Evening everybody, grinned Les, then pulled his Speedos off,
rolled over and mooned the surrounding windows. Would you like
another look? Sure you do. Les rolled over again and spread his
freckly, white cheeks. There you go. What do you reckon that is? A cut
or a burn? Les flopped around a while longer then got out and
climbed back into his robe. He tossed his towel over his shoulders
and dripped water in the lift all the way to the twenty-third floor.
Back in his room, Les showered and shaved and changed into his
back-up tracksuit, a dark blue Brooks. He got a bottle of Hahn
premium from the mini-bar and studied the room service menu. Les
picked up the phone and ordered hoummos, taramasalata and
toasted pita bread plus a Caesar salad with Cajun chicken for starters.
Lamb rack with mashed potato and vegetables for mains. And coffee
and bread rolls. The person at room service told Mr Ullrich it should
be there in thirty minutes. Les flopped back on the bed, swivelled the
TV round and watched Seinfeld. It wasn't a bad one: Kramer is a
theatre guide, Elaine shows a bit of cleavage and George gets dressed
up as Henry the Eighth. Les was still laughing over a bottle of Hahn
when his meal arrived. He gave the waiter two bucks and got stuck
into it over Adelaide's version of the 7.30 Report.
Les couldn't knock the food. It was delicious. The vegetables were
steamed to perfection and the lamb was tender. The Caesar salad was
exceptional. Les bored in then put the trolley out on the landing,
saving the hoummos for a late night snack. He started flicking
through the TV guide. There wasn't much on the commercial
channels and SBS were having another racist witch hunt. A doco
about the Vietnam War on the ABC looked interesting. Les got his
map out and went over it again while he waited, when the phone
rang. It was Gary Blair from Travelabout.
'Gary,' said Les. 'What's up?'
'Nothing,' replied Gary. 'I just thought I'd ring up and see if
everything was okay. All part of our after-sales service.'
'Thanks, Gary. No, everything's as a bean, Gary. The driver picked
me up okay. The hotel's the grouse. In fact I've just been for a swim
in the pool.'
'You've been swimming? What's the weather like down there?'
'Cold and cloudy. But the pool was heated.'
'It's pouring bloody rain up here.'
'Fair dinkum?'
'Hey, I just thought I'd tell you, Les. The reason that bloke never
picked up his ticket. The poor bastard got run over.'
'He what?'
'A motorbike collected him near Rose Bay golf links. He died on
the way to hospital.'
'Shit!'
'So you won't have to worry about Mr Ullrich wanting his room
back.'
Jesus, Gary. I hope this isn't some kind of omen. Like the Twilight
Zone and he turns up delivering my room service or something.'
Hey, you never know, Les. Adelaide's a spooky place.'
'Thanks, Gary.'
'Anyway, I'm glad everything's all sweet. Anything goes wrong, give
me a ring.'
'No worries. Thanks, Gary.'
Les hung up the phone. Bloody hell! One minute I'm going
through a dead bloke's house. Now I'm staying in a dead bloke's
room and using his name. Not a very nice coincidence. Les gazed
absently out the window for a moment. Not much I can do about it
though, I suppose. Les got the last Heineken from the mini-bar and
settled back in front of the TV.
The doco wasn't bad and showed how easily the Vietnam War
could have been avoided if the Yanks had used their heads. Instead
they blew JFK's off then managed to kill three million Vietnamese
along with fifty thousand Americans. After that there was nothing.
Les switched off the TV and stared out the window at the city lights.
It was too early to go to bed, and that cooped up feeling started
kicking in again. You know what I should do, he told himself, instead
of flopping around after all that food. Go for a walk. Even if it's just
up to that music shop and have another look through those CDs.
Yeah. Why not. Les put his Nauticas on and walked out to the lift.
The bar on the corner had picked up and so had Hindley Street
when Les got there. Les stopped outside the empty theatre at the end
of the lane and had a look around. Gangs of youths were roaming
around in baggy clothes and baseball caps on back the front,
swearing and trying to act tough, while packs of hoons cruised up
and down the street like sharks in old Kingswoods and Commodores,
yelling out at any passing girls. Across the road in front of a Time
Zone, gangs of black kids, aged from ten up, swarmed around the
footpath managing to swear louder than anybody. Young girls
hobbled past in long black boots with high heels, each one wearing a
black mini, a black top and five layers of make-up. Mecca appeared to
be the hotel and strip joint on the opposite corner. Several lumpy
girls in minis and high heeled boots were bumping and grinding out
the front to a blaring disco version of Rod Stewart's 'Do Ya Think I'm
Sexy', trying to entice any passing blokes to come in. Behind the
enclosed verandah upstairs, you could be a star for the evening and
dance on a little stage placed in full view of the street below. Rod
Stewart finished and 'Bus Stop' started thumping out from the hotel
at a thousand decibels plus. Les walked across to the music store.
Latino music was playing and the owner was busy behind the
counter talking to a South American bloke when Les walked in.
Although the shop was crowded, Les managed to earwig the
conversation. The customer had just bought some tickets to an Afro
Latino Fiesta and he and the owner were discussing Latino bands. Les
stepped over to the blues section and started flicking through the
CDs. There were bands Les had never heard of. Sax Gordon, Red
Rivers and the Rocketones, CJ's Blues Band. Eddie The Chief
Clearwater. Blue Katz. It was torture. All that music to be bought and
he was going in the nick. Les would have loved to have heard a few
tracks. But all the headphones were being used and the owner was
playing Latino for the benefit of the people buying tickets for the
concert. Les could only take so much. He flicked through the CDs again and left.
There was a Lebanese takeaway two doors up from the music store
with a few chairs and tables out the front. Les walked in and got a
bottle of OJ from the fridge. As he paid for his drink, Les
inadvertently flashed several one-hundred dollar bills. A young black
homeboy standing out the front in a Sweat Hog jacket noticed and
hurried back to the Time Zone to tell four of his mates. Les stopped
next to one of the tables and downed his OJ, not noticing the severe
eyeballing he was getting from five young hoods wearing baggies and
floppy beanies. Three were blacks, another was white and the fifth
could have been anything from a Yemeni to an Eskimo. The oldest
was around fifteen. Les dumped his empty bottle in the nearest bin
then sidestepped through the passing cars across Hindley Street and
proceeded down the lane. He was level with the skip bin at the alley
when he heard a young voice behind him.
'Hey mister. You got a cigarette?'
Les stopped and slowly turned around. The tallest of the gang,
wearing a red beanie, was doing all the talking. The others were
grouped behind him, rocking up and down on their toes.
Les didn't need a degree in atomic physics to know what their
intentions were. 'Sorry,' he said slowly. 'But I don't smoke.'
'Then give us all your fuckin money. You cunt,' snarled Red
Beanie.
Norton's face turned to stone. 'Get fucked. I'll give you nothing.'
'Yeah? Then I'll fuckin stick you.' Red Beanie pulled out a knife
and waved it in front of Les, close enough to put a tiny nick in
Norton's jacket. 'I'm tellin' you, I'll fuckin stick you, man. Give us
your fuckin money.'
Les looked at his jacket. 'My fuckin good tracksuit,' he howled.
'You little cunt.'
Norton wasn't in the mood to play games. If the kids wanted to be
men, then they'd better learn to take it like men. He pivoted slightly
on his left foot and with his right instep kicked the knife straight out
of Red Beanie's hand, breaking the kid's wrist. The young hood
screamed with pain and grabbed his shattered wrist as the knife
landed in the skip bin. Les followed up with a full-blooded right into
the young hood's face, almost taking his skinny head off. Before the
kid hit the ground, Les turned and left hooked his nearest mate,
dumping him on his skinny backside with blood pouring down his
chin and no front teeth. Realising things weren't quite going as they'd
planned it, the other three turned and went for their lives. One wasn't
quite quick enough and Les was able to kick him fair up the arse. He
yelped with pain and lost his balance for a moment then tottered
forward before catching up with his mates.
'We'll fuckin remember you, mate,' one called out.
'Good,' Les called back. 'Make sure you do.'
'Fuckin white cunt.'
'At least I know what I am,' said Les. 'Do you?'
Les looked at the two young hoods moaning on the ground and
felt like doing a bit of Balmain folk dancing on their heads. Instead
he gave them a kick in the thigh each and walked briskly to the end of
the lane. He ignored the people in the bar on the corner, jogged
straight across the road and up the driveway into the Grande.
Les stopped near a column in the lobby to gather his thoughts.
Can you believe that? he asked himself. I go up to have a lousy look at
some CDs and I nearly get rolled. Bloody hell! Does trouble follow
me around or what? Shaking his head, Les felt like a drink. But not in

his room. Why don't I have one in the Torrens Bar? he thought.
Maybe with a bit of luck somebody'll pick a fight with me in there,
too. Or pull a gun on me. Or a knife or something. They'd be mad
not to. I mean, that's what I'm here for.
A bar built low to the floor with low seating ran around as you
walked in on the left with a sunken lounge on the right and plenty of
chairs and tables in between. A mirrored ceiling looked down on the
punters and at the rear a three-piece jazz combo was backing a girl in
a silver-blue lame dress wailing 'My Baby Don't Care For Me'. The air
was thick with smoke, most of it coming from a plentiful selection
of cigars available in a cabinet near the entrance. Along with the
cocktails and beers going down, every second man in the place was
smoking a cigar and every woman was smoking a cigarette. Everyone
was dressed up, mainly in black, and the average age was thirty plus.
There was a casually dressed group of people at one end of the bar
that looked like flight attendants on a stopover. Looking around, Les
surmised the Torrens Bar was one of the places to be seen in
Adelaide. He walked over to the bar, ordered a bottle of Hahn and a
JD and ice and charged it to his room. Some bloke in a dark jacket got up from a table near the cigar cabinet leaving a butt smouldering
in an ashtray. Les took the table, dumped the cigar butt into a pot
plant and sat facing the bar. He took a belt of JD and washed it down
with almost half the bottle of beer.
Well that's it, Les told himself. No more going out while I'm away.
I'm a walking fuckin disaster area. Kids with knives, blokes with iron
bars. Coppers. Stop the fight! He took another hit of JD with his beer
chaser and looked at the nick in his tracksuit. No. Tomorrow night
I'll be in my room watching TV or reading a book. In fact I shouldn't
even be in this rotten bloody smoke box. Knowing my luck, the
cops'll come in here looking for whoever belted those little pricks,
and I'll get charged with assault. Along with every bloody thing else
I've been charged with. Fuck it. I'm out of here. Les downed the rest
of his drinks and caught a lift to his room.
The room temperature was perfect. Les took his tracksuit off,
cleaned his teeth and turned the TV on. There was still nothing
worth watching, but Les lay on the bed and watched it for a while
anyway before turning everything off and getting under the doona.
As he squashed his head into the pillows, Les couldn't help but think
about Conrad Ullrich being dead. It was a little eerie. And Gary
saying Adelaide was a spooky place. I wonder why he said that?
Buggered if I know. Buggered if I know anything to be honest.
Les yawned and stretched out a little more. This bloody bed's
comfortable. I know that. Before long Norton was snoring peacefully.
Les was out of bed, cleaned up and staring out the window at eight
o'clock the next morning, picking over the remains of last night's
hoummos. Outside it was windy with patchy rain and it looked cold.
So. What should I wear today in my search for the good ship Lollipop
or whatever it is? thought Les. I'll probably be doing a fair bit of
running around. I reckon my tracksuit and gym boots. And my Bugs
Bunny cap. Les got changed, put what he thought he'd need in his
backpack and left it on the bed then got the lift down to the Regency
Club to sample the continental breakfast.
A smiling girl in a black uniform checked Norton's room charge
card when he walked in. There were plenty of comfortable chairs and
glass tables and about a dozen guests seated round the fountain. Les
placed his room key on a table near the entrance and walked across
to the servery. He didn't go far. Next to the fresh fruit and stewed
peaches was a tub of fresh Bircher Muesli thick with blueberries. Les
got the biggest bowl he could find and ate enough to fill a pothole in
a road. He followed that with toast, smoked salmon and coffee
and more toast, and finished with two sparkling glasses of fresh OJ.
Nothing wrong with the continental breakfast, thought Les, rubbing
his stomach as he took the lift back to his room. I can't wait for
tomorrow. He checked his map again, made sure he had everything,
and headed for Avis.
There were two girls in red uniforms looking after two customers
at the far end of the office when Les walked in, and a man at this end
using the phone. The man was wearing a button-down collar shirt
with the collar buttons undone and a crumpled red tie. He put the
phone down and moved his eyes wearily to Les, looking like he'd sell
his soul if he could get out of having to work that morning.
'Yes, sir,' said the bloke, expressionlessly. 'How can I help you?'
'Have you got a car here for Ullrich?' said Les. 'Through
Travelabout in Sydney?'
'Just one moment, sir.' The bloke punched the keys on a computer
like he was shifting furniture. 'That's right, sir. A Hyundai Grandeur.
For Mr C. Ullrich.'
Norton couldn't help himself. He had to try an impersonation of
Telly in Analyze This. 'Mr Ullrich's been detained,' said Les. 'Not only
that. He ain't going to be here. So I'll be taking it instead. My name's
Norton.'
The bloke looked at the computer screen again. 'No problem, Mr
Norton. Do you have your driver's licence and credit card?'
'I sure do.'
Les soon filled out the forms and was handed a receipt, the keys, a
small map of Adelaide, a pamphlet for the Avis Navigator and told
where to collect the car.
'You know how to work the Avis Navigator, sir?' asked the bloke.
Les looked at the pamphlet like it was a Chinese newspaper. 'I
wouldn't have a clue.'
'Just read the pamphlet, sir. It's quite simple.'
Les looked at the pamphlet again. 'Simple, eh?'
'Yes, sir. Just read the instructions, sir,' repeated the bloke, tireder
than ever. 'It's quite simple.'
'Yeah righto,' replied Les, staring blankly at the pamphlet. He
walked out of the office into a small arcade with a few Saturday shoppers and through a doorway into the car park. The Hyundai was
up on the next level in bay 37.
The car had a silver duco with a neat grille and looked a little like
a small Mercedes. Les clicked the locks up with the remote, opened
the door and got behind the wheel. Inside it was all soft leather seats
that adjusted every which way and a wooden dash that looked like it
belonged in a MiG 21. Les had a look around and tried to familiarise
himself with everything. The handbrake was a footbrake with the
release in the dash, you couldn't take the keys out of the ignition unless the gear shift was in park and the electric windows
especially designed so you'd push the wrong buttons all the There was a small screen below the dash and sitting near the shift was the control module, something like a TV remote. Les
another look at the pamphlet.
Avis Navigator is easy ... Control Module. Cursor direction contr
Repeat direction. Confirmation key. Main menu. Plan an alternat
route. Volume down. Volume up. Turn on ignition. Les turned on the ignition and the screen lit up. Main Control. Destination input. Stand;
by. Settings. Les pressed a minus button and a woman's voice said,
'Softer.'
Les pressed a plus button and the voice said.
'Louder.'
Well, I'll be buggered, thought Les. How about that. Les pressed
more buttons and the screen changed to: Destination Input. Country.
Junction. Guidance. Les pressed buttons and more buttons and got
nothing except the woman's voice saying softer and louder. After a
while he threw in the towel. Fuck this! You'd have to be Bill Gates to
work one of these. Les locked the car, went back to the office and got
the bloke to come and have a look at it. The bloke followed Les like
he was being led to a firing squad.
'Fair dinkum mate,' said Les, as they both got in the front seat, 'I
can't work this thing out to save my life. It took me all my time to
find the handbrake.'
The bloke looked at the pamphlet. 'They can be a little tricky,' he
conceded.
'A little tricky?' echoed Les.
'Where are you going, sir?'
'Victor Harbor.'
Even the man from Avis had a little trouble. But eventually he
pushed the right buttons and the screen lit up like the keys on a
typewriter. He ran Les through it; Les nodded, understanding less
than a third of what he was saying. Finally the bloke punched in
Victor Harbor. And told Les how to punch in his way back to
Adelaide.
'There you go, sir,' he said. 'You'll be all right now.'
Les had another look at the pamphlet. Approximately ten to
twenty-five per cent of the traffic network is changing each year.
Because of this one hundred per cent accuracy is not possible.
'Hey mate,' asked Les. 'Do these things play up much?'
'No more than anything else, sir,' replied the man.
'Yeah. But do they play up?'
A polite half-smile appeared on the man's face before vanishing.
'No more than anything else, sir,' he repeated.
'Thanks,' Les watched as the man got out of the car and dragged
himself back to the office.
Terrific, thought Les. That means they can play up. Knowing my
luck I'll probably finish up in Perth. Les got his backpack from the
back seat and put it next to him with the map on top. Oh well, here
goes nothing, he thought, and started the car. The engine was that
quiet and smooth you hardly knew it was running and after fiddling
around with the seat the car seemed to mould itself around you.
Les drove to the boom gate, gave the parking attendant his ticket,
then turned right into a lane and came out facing the Grande. There
was a break in the traffic and Les turned left looking for West Terrace
then Anzac Highway and South Road. He took a quick glance at the
map when an arrow and a number appeared on the radar screen and
the woman's voice said.
'In two hundred and fifty metres, turn left.'
'Huh? Oh, thanks sweetheart.'
Sure enough, there was West Terrace. Les waited for the lights and
took off. He was about to check the map again, when the voice said,
'In five hundred metres, turn right.'
'If you say so, sexy,' smiled Les.
A little further on a sign said Anzac Highway. And another, A. 13
Noarlunga. Cape Jervis. Victor Harbor. Yes, smiled Norton. We're
on our way.
The traffic was constant, but compared to Sydney it was a drive in
the country.
There were plenty of parks and trees and the road was wide and
flat like the old houses going by on either side. Les passed a hotel on
the left called The Avoca and smiled as he briefly remembered
walking along the beach with Jimmy Rosewater. The traffic thinned
out a little and he came to a slight rise so Les put his foot down to see
what the Hyundai could do. Instantly it kicked silently down
into second and took off. Les found himself congratulating the late
Conrad Ullrich on his choice of cars. The Grandeur was a real pocket
rocket. Les zipped effortlessly past the other cars then eased up. The
last thing he needed was to get pulled over and a check done on
his licence.
'Right turn -- ahead.'
'What?'
Les looked at the radar screen and an arrow saying 2700 metres.
Minutes later, Les found himself cruising up a winding hill and
noticed in the distance a low range of mountains that ringed
Adelaide. He crossed the Onkaparinga River and the voice said,
'Left turn ahead.'
After that it was plain sailing. A shower would fall now and again,
but mostly it was light drizzle. The countryside was green rolling hills
with patches of forest here and there, but it still looked a little barren;
probably because it was such a miserable bleak day. Les didn't
notice many birds. The only signs of life were cows standing around
waterholes with ibises picking at the grass near their hooves. He went
through Mount Compass. It was more a big hill than a mountain,
with a set of lights, then a few shops and a hotel on the left. Les was
tempted to put on a tape but he thought it might be best to
concentrate on the road rather than start bopping. The road curved
up and down. The weather had probably turned away the weekend
drivers so there wasn't a great deal of traffic. A sign on the right said.
Miniature Village. It's certainly bloody miniature, thought Les,
cause I'm buggered if I can see anything. The farms thinned out and
houses began to appear. Then a Lutheran church with a sign out the
front. Your child's tomorrow depends on your love today. I'll go
along with that, thought Les. Unless it's got a skateboard that should
be wrapped round its pointy little head. A garage loomed up on the
left and Les got a glimpse of ocean. A sign on the left pointed to
Goolwa and another on the right said, Victor Harbor.

'Right turn ahead.'
'Thanks, baby,' smiled Les. 'I couldn't have got here without you.'
The road curved down a hill with houses on either side, the ocean on the left, and surrounding hills off to the right. Ahead was just a I
huge bay edged by a strip of sand. There were a few rocky islands and waves breaking over reefs near the shore, a long row of pine trees
faced the ocean and in the distance a long jetty ran out to another
rocky island, and that was it. It looked nice enough. But Les was
expecting wharves, jetties, piers, marinas, boats, fishing fleets. Not just a big, blue bay. The smile vanished from Norton's face. This is
Victor Harbor, he asked himself? Railway lines appeared on the left,
and coming up was the shopping centre. Suddenly a sign on a small
blue wooden building on the right in front of a brown wooden fence caught Norton's eye and he pulled over. I. V.H. Sea Scouts. Hello,
thought Les, I'll bet that's where Knox and his mates got their
T-shirts. I'm definitely on the right track. The building was locked and the wind blew a sudden patch of rain against the car so he didn't I
bother getting out. He doubted if he'd find what he was looking for
in there anyway. But he'd keep it in mind. Heartened by what he'd: found, Les drove on.
He bypassed the shopping centre and followed the road as close to I
the coastline as he could with no idea where it would lead. Around
him were mostly houses or holiday lettings, a few small blocks of flats;
and the odd motel. Parks and reserves overlooked the bay and he crossed a couple of creeks. A smile flickered in Norton's eyes for a
moment. Next door to a bowling club was The Ezy Rest Motel. The
sealed road finished at a blue building called The Whalers Inn Resort and Conference Centre, then a narrow dirt road curved round the
water's edge towards a low bluff. There were still no boats or jetties,
not so much as a canoe or a paddle pop stick floating in the water.
Just a few clumps of granite rocks smeared with bird shit sticking up
through the seaweed with the odd pelican sitting on top. Les followed
the dirt road till it ended at a turning circle next to a small wharf and
a low granite wall facing the ocean. Parked near a granite cliff was an
old white station wagon and sitting on the wall were two surfboard
riders. Les pulled up near the wharf, got out of the car and stretched
his legs. The rain had eased, but a gusty offshore wind was blowing
and it was quite cold. Les shoved his hands in his pockets and had
a look around.
The wharf was a fish measuring station, with a noticeboard at one
end showing the different kinds of fish. Across the bay, houses built
on the low hills overlooked the ocean and there was another island in
the distance, but still not a boat in sight. Les was shaking his head,
completely baffled, when he heard the two board riders clapping
their hands and calling out to something in the water. He sauntered
over for a look. Swimming next to the rocks were half a dozen seals.
Les watched fascinated as the seals rolled on their sides, dived under
the water then came up again, snorting and blowing as they floated
on their backs, wiggling their flippers and looking up at you with big
soft eyes. Les had never seen a seal before. He got his camera from his
backpack and, despite his disappointment at not finding any boats,
took a few photos. The two surfies gave him a smile, then got in their car and drove off. Les was about to take another photo of the seals when a movement on the right caught his eye.
A woman wearing just a pair of check shorts and a black Tshirt rattled up on a battered old push bike. A white helmet sat loosely on
her head and a pair of well-worn thongs clung to her feet. She had black hair and a plain face and Les would have put her age at around
forty. The cold didn't seem to worry her at all. Les caught her eye as she rested her bike against the granite wall and smiled. She smiled
back then turned to watch the seals. Les walked over to her.
'Excuse me,' he said. 'Would you mind doing me a favour?'
'Ohh yeah,' answered the woman. 'What is it?'
'Would you mind taking a photo of me standing next to the car?'
'Okay.' The woman looked at the camera as Les handed it to her.
'How do you work this?'
'It's easy.'
Les showed her how, then sat against the bonnet of the Hyundai
with the ocean in the background. The woman clicked off a photo.
Les got her to take another one of him standing on the wharf.
'Thanks very much,' he said, taking his camera back.
'That's okay.'
The woman seemed quite friendly, so Les thought he'd try a few
questions. 'You from round here?' he asked.
The woman pointed to the houses facing the bay. 'Over there.'
'You lived here long?'
'All my life,' she replied, sounding rather proud of the fact.
'Hey, how come there's no boats around? It's supposed to be
a Harbor.'
'The marina's at Goolwa. They keep them there.'
'Oh? Where's that?' asked Les.
The woman pointed across the bay. 'About twenty kilometres that
way. It's nicer than Victor Harbor, too. Not so touristy.'
'Right,' nodded Les. Yes, she's a local all right, he smiled to himself.
'There's another marina on Hindmarsh Island, too.'
'How do I get there?'
'You get the ferry at Goolwa.'
'Fair enough,' nodded Les. 'Hey, have you ever heard of a boat
called the Trough Queens. I'm looking for the owner.'
The woman looked at Les and shook her head. 'No. Can't say
I have.'
'Okay. I'll ask around Goolwa.'
'If you don't do any good there, ask the fishermen in the pub.'
'Fishermen?'
'Yeah. They'll all be in the pub Saturday night. They'd know.'
'Which pub?'
'The Harbor Hotel. There's two pubs near the jetty. The Harbor
and the Royal. They'll be in the Harbor.'
'Thanks,' said Les. 'You've been a big help.'
'No worries.'
The woman went back to watching the seals and Les got in the car.
Well, there you go, thought Norton as he drove back along the dirt
road. All you have to do is ask the locals. I'll take a run over to
Goolwa. If I don't do any good I'll come back and ask the fishermen
in the local boozer. Be funny if I bumped those blokes in the photo.
Les stopped at the end of the dirt road and had a quick look at his
map. On the way to Goolwa was a place called Port Elliott. I suppose
I'd better have a look in there while I'm at it, he thought. It says port.
Yeah. Like this place says Harbor. Les bypassed the shopping centre
again, figuring he'd check it out later and get a coffee. Just past the sea
scout building on the left, Les noticed a sign. Victor Harbor, where you're always welcome. Yeah. That's me all right, Les smiled to himself. Everybody's mate.
The road to Goolwa was straight and flat through wide green '§ fields and barren hills. Sitting amongst the farms and houses on the side of the road was an abandoned drive-in and an old sign, ten dollars A car load. At a row of shops Les turned right into Port ('
Elliott. The street leading to the ocean was narrow and flanked by old heritage
buildings preserved in the original red-brick and sandstone.
It was all very colonial and beautiful, but not what Les had come to
see. He drove to the end and came out at a bluff overlooking a wide
deep bay with a rocky island in the middle. The wind had picked up,
pushing a light drizzle before it and the ocean looked grey and
uninviting. On a fine day it probably would have looked a picture. .
But not today. And again there was not a boat to be seen. Les turned
around and got back on the main road.
Entering Goolwa, Les drove past more old red-brick and
sandstone buildings with verandahs built out over the footpath, and
a sign said Welcome to Goolwa. South Australia's tidiest town. At
the start of the main street another sign near the local war memorial
said Hindmarsh Island ferry. Les hung a right then followed the
signs, almost going round in a circle, before coming out at a railway
line opposite a row of pine trees in front of a floating motel.
Towering over a strip of water was a bridge under construction and
just past that two rows of cars were waiting for the ferry. One lane
said. Priority. Les pulled into the other and turned off the motor
There were other buildings back amongst the trees and a restaurant
on the wharf. Norton's timing was good. Just as he pulled up the ferry
pulled in. The cars in front started moving and a bloke in overalls
guided them on to the ferry.
The ferry took about a dozen vehicles and two minutes to reach
Hindmarsh Island. Les followed the other cars off the ferry and
started looking for the marina. The road was sealed, but all Les could
see was reclaimed swamp covered in flat tundra with patches of scrub
and no trees. The only touch of colour was an Aboriginal flag painted
on a sheet of corrugated iron at the end of a paddock. Secret women's
business, thought Les. Christ! Why waste millions of dollars arguing
over the joint? It's a swamp. The roads seemed to circle every which
way till eventually Les came across some new homes, bulldozers
clearing the swamp and a blue-grey tavern with an olive green roof.
Near a ring of townhouses down from the tavern was the marina.
Les drove down to a parking area in front of a long, flat green
building with a radio antenna on the roof that overlooked the
marina. He parked the car and got out. Several grey wooden jetties
pushed out from the grass in front of the parking area and along the
jetties, rows of boats moved gently at their moorings. There was no
one about; the only sound was the wind and a solitary crow
squawking in the scrub. With a light drizzle softly swirling around
him, Les pulled his collar up and started combing the jetties looking
for the Trough Queen.
The boats were all cruisers and yachts named Wind Move, Lazy
life or Lady Celene with numbers on the bow: MR 6034, IF 1731, TQ
555. Definitely no old wooden clinkers. Les went over the last then got back in the car. Well, it's definitely not there. I'll try the one
in Goolwa. He started the car and drove back to the ferry. This time
there were more cars and he had to wait a little longer. While he was
sitting in the car Les noticed the other marina off to the right on the
mainland. After cooling his heels for fifteen minutes they were
herded aboard for the two-minute journey then he bumped off the
ferry behind a small white truck.
Les circled round once more then came down the main street of
Goolwa. Like Port Elliott it was all old red-brick and sandstone
buildings with galvanised iron roofs and verandahs built out over the
footpath. There was a hotel amongst a row of shops, a garage that
looked like it had been shut since nineteen fifty, craft shops and cafes
and a small horse-drawn tram displayed in a shelter. Very interesting,
thought Les. He did a U-turn at a motel, stopping for a woman with
a pram, then drove back and took a left at an op shop on a corner.
There were more heritage buildings and houses, then Les bumped
over a railway line and the marina was on the right, running
alongside a park and a long patch of bullrushes. There was a small
parking area in front of a brown building with boat supplies on the
side. Les stopped the car and got out.
The Goolwa marina was much the same as the one on Hindmarsh
Island only more spread out and the boats looked a little less
expensive. They had names like Big Bird, Onawa and numbers on the
bow. LP 2545, MJ 663. At the end of one pier Les thought for a
moment he'd found the Trough Queen. But it was only an old grey
wooden clinker called White Coffee IF 3192. Les went over it just to
be sure it wasn't the Trough Queen renamed and done up. It wasn't.
Feeling a little disgruntled, Les walked back to the car.
Well, that's that, thought Les. My only chance now is to ask those
fishermen tonight. He looked at his watch. But I don't fancy
hanging round till dark. I may as well drive back to Adelaide and
come back tonight. This little car's fun to drive and I'm doing
nothing else. I wouldn't mind a quick bite to eat right now, though.
What about some fish and chips in Victor Harbor? I still haven't
had a look at the place yet. Les started the car and headed for
Victor's shopping centre.
When Les got there, he went past the main street and turned left
further on, doubling back down a wide road running alongside the
bay. He had a quick look around then parked near a row of pine trees
next to the tourist centre, where you caught a horse-drawn tram
across the jetty to Granite Island. Over the road were two hotels with
a park and a fountain in between and a building to the right with
encounter coast discovery centre on the side. Behind the building
was a much larger park where a longer row of pine trees faced the
ocean. Two small streets and a number of shops ran up from the
hotel on the left and the main street started behind the hotel on the
right. There weren't many cars and people around. The main activity
was a group of bike riders in coloured lycra and safety helmets. Les
locked the car and crossed the road.
The hotel the woman had mentioned, the Harbor, was the one on
the left and looked quite modern with long, wide windows facing the
ocean. The other hotel on the right, the Royal, had a green verandah
above the footpath with signs on it saying dance club Saturday, Band
Friday. Set in in pavers around both pubs were lovely old gas lights
and small trees. Les walked past the Royal and up the main street.
There were the usual coffee shops, a newsagent, clothes and
sporting stores, fish shops and banks. Les heard music playing -- The
Eagles, 'Hotel California'. A little further on was a radio station,
99.9 FM, Great Southern Radio and a DJ in his forties sitting in a
window facing the street. Les turned back and found a fish and chip
shop opposite the bank with a wooden table and bench seat out the
front. This'll do, he thought, and went inside to see what was
on offer.
There was a dark-haired woman in a white tunic standing behind
the counter and a blackboard menu on the wall. Les ordered three
King George whiting fillets and chips and an OJ. This didn't take long
to cook. Les paid the woman then went outside and sat down at the
wooden table. He spread his fish and chips out to cool and started
eating. The whiting fillets were delicious and the chips weren't bad
either. A car parked in front of where Les was sitting pulled out and
seconds later a flock of seagulls arrived, squawking and arguing with
each other around Norton's feet, waiting for a handout. Les threw
them a few pieces of batter and some burnt chips to shut them up.
But the more he gave them the more they wanted and the more they
fought amongst each other. Les was tossing the seagulls another
couple of chips when a bloke driving an old, white Jaguar with
Victorian number plates pulled into the vacant parking spot,
scattering the seagulls. The bloke got out of the car and locked the
doors. He was wearing a blue cheek shirt tucked into a pair of blue
King Gee trousers and he was bigger than Les with a beefy, florid face and long black sidelevers. For some reason he gave Les a dirty look
before crossing over to use the ATM outside the bank. As soon as he
left, the seagulls returned for another handout. A couple landed on
top of the bloke's restored Jaguar and shat on it. Les tossed the
seagulls some more chips as the bloke came back from the ATM. As
soon as he saw the seagulls sitting on his car his florid face turned
purple.
'Ahh get off the car you mongrels,' he cursed, scattering the two
seagulls. 'I just washed the fuckin thing.' The bloke looked at Les
finishing his fish and chips and muttered something under his
breath.
Les smiled up at the bloke good naturedly. 'They reckon that's a
sign of good luck,' said Les, nodding to the two piles of white shit on
the roof of the car.
Sidelevers glared at Les. 'You're lucky I don't shove those fuckin
fish 'n' chips down your throat, you prick,' he growled.
Norton's eyes narrowed. It hadn't been a good day, even without
the weather.
'Yeah?' replied Les. 'Well how about you shove your old bomb
Valiant up your fat arse instead, you big goose.'
'What did you fuckin say?' snarled Sidelevers.
'You heard,' said Les. 'What? Are you deaf as well as ugly?'
'Why you smartarse fuckin cunt.'
The big bloke came charging round on the left to grab Les by the
front of his tracksuit and pull him out from behind the table. Les
edged back a little, then quickly stood up and slammed the top of his
head into Sidelever's nose stopping him dead in his tracks. The big
bloke howled with pain as blood started pouring out of his mangled
nose, and down his chin. Les pushed Sidelevers back, then bent slightly at the knees and belted him under the ear with a short,
devastating left hook. The big bloke's legs went from under him and
he fell down in the gutter next to his car, out cold. Les looked at him
for a moment, then picked up the wrapping paper from the table and
scattered what was left of his fish and chips all over Sidelever's chest.
In a squawking, screeching frenzy, the seagulls immediately swarmed
onto the big bloke's check shirt and started gobbling up the scraps.
One dropped a shit on his forehead. Les scrunched up the wrapping
paper, tossed it in the nearest bin along with his empty OJ container
and walked back to the car. On the way out of town he saw the sign
again: Victor Harbor, where you're always welcome. Yeah. That's
me, nodded Les. Making friends wherever I go.
Les stopped at the garage near the Goolwa turn-off and bought a
packet of jaffas and some mineral water. He had a fiddle with the
navigator while he was sitting there, getting Route Selection,
Optimise Distance. And the woman's voice saying softer -- louder.
Les had a pretty good idea how to get back to Adelaide anyway, so he
just left the navigator turned on and kept his map next to him. Well.
So much for beautiful downtown Victor Harbor in the daytime,
thought Les, popping a Jaffa in his mouth. I wonder what it'll be like
when I come back tonight? Cold, I'd reckon. He hit the blinker and
headed for Adelaide.
The farms and turn-offs to local hamlets went by. Les wasn't
thinking about much. There wasn't much to think about. Things
hadn't quite turned out the way he expected. But it wasn't over yet.
He still had one shot left. And trying not to be over optimistic, Les
had a feeling something would turn up in the hotel when he met the
local fishermen. He took a tape from his backpack and popped it in
the stereo. Next thing Lee Kernaghan was twanging 'Aussie Dog
House Blues'. Mount Compass went by and further on a turn-off to
some place called Yundi. It didn't seem long and Professor Ratbaggy
was singing 'Love Letter' and Les was in downtown Adelaide.
'Right turn. Five hundred metres.'
'Okay, baby,' said Les.
'In two hundred and fifty metres, take the next turn on your right.'
The navigator hadn't been saying all that much and whether it was
working properly or Les had somehow fluked it, he didn't know. But
the Bar Kings' 'Treat Me Right' faded out just as Les pulled safely into
the driveway of the Adelaide Grande. He opened the door to get out
and pushed the minus button on the navigator. As the concierge
approached, the voice said,
'Softer. Softer.'
Les gave him a smile. 'Be nice to my girlfriend, won't you.'
The concierge smiled back and gave Les his receipt. 'No problems,
Mr Ullrich. We'll look after her.'
Les caught the lift to his room and got out of his damp tracksuit.
After spending most of the day sitting in the car, he felt like another
swim in the heated pool to stretch out a bit. He put his Speedos on,
climbed into the bathrobe and with a towel over his shoulder, caught
the lift down to the pool to give the guests another glimpse of his freckly
backside. Except when he got there, two other guests were in the pool
-- a couple of young Japanese honeymooners who went awfully coy
when Les dived in alongside them. Les gave them a smile then spent an
enjoyable time flopping around and breaststroking up and down the
pool. The only chilling thought, apart from the weather, was knowing it
all had to end and he wouldn't be doing any swimming in the remand
yard at Long Bay. Les finally got out and went back to his room. He rang
room service and ordered another Caesar salad, plus a club sandwich
and coffee. Then he got under the shower. His food arrived, Les
switched on the TV and ate it watching a wildlife documentary. After
putting the empty tray outside the door, he changed into a pair of jeans, a clean grey T-shirt and his leather jacket. He checked everything he
needed was in his backpack, then went down and collected the
Hyundai. Minutes later Les was taking a night drive through the
suburbs of Adelaide. Somewhere along the way the voice said,
'Right turn, five hundred metres.'
'Righto, sweetheart,' replied Les. 'You don't have to nag. I think I
know where I'm going by now.'
A bit further on the voice said, 'In two hundred and fifty metres,
take the next turn on your right.'
'Hey, I won't tell you again,' said Les. 'Knock up on the nagging.
You don't know who you're dealing with, woman.'
Bloody sheilas, smiled Les. You can't tell them anything. He
slipped on a tape and Steely Dan started bopping out 'Cousin
Dupree'. The Hippos were 'Three Steps From The Blues' when Les
drove into Victor Harbor.
Les pulled up facing the park opposite the Harbor Hotel and
switched off the motor. He got out of the car and there was a bitter
wind blowing straight in off the ocean; as he'd surmised earlier, it was
cold all right. There weren't many cars around and the surrounding
cafes were almost empty. From the hotel further down Les could hear
music coming from upstairs and see the punters drinking in one of
the bars below. Across the road at the Harbor Hotel two bars faced
the street; a lounge on the left and a smaller one on the right. Oh
well, here goes nothing, thought Les. He shouldered his backpack and
walked over to check out the lounge first.
A long bar faced the door as you entered and inside it was split
into two sections, a raised lounge on the left with a gaming room
behind, and a betting room on the right. The barmaids wore white
shirts and rugged up in jackets and scarves was an average crowd of
all ages and sexes, seated or standing around enjoying a drink and a
smoke. The betting room was full of TV sets showing the prices and a
TAB doing brisk business on the trots. Above the bar were photos
and paintings of racehorses and a wooden cabinet full of cups and
trophies. Set up in the lounge was a duo called Joe and Danny who
were currently on a break. Les had a quick look around then walked
into the lounge first. Nothing much was happening in there so he
walked back to the betting room. After checking out the punters, Les
got a feeling he was in the wrong part of the hotel. He stepped across to the bar and caught one of the barmaid's eye.
'Excuse me,' asked Les. 'Where do the fishermen drink?'
'Fishermen?' said the barmaid.
'Yeah.'
She pointed to the left. 'Try next door.'
'Thanks.' Les walked back out into the street and went into the
other bar.
It was smaller, just a room with two pool tables, more betting
facilities, a juke box against the far wall and blue curtained windows looking out on the street. There was a solitary barman in a shirt and tie and behind the bar were sporting photos and one of two blokes
standing next to a monster crocodile they'd just shot and hung from
a rope. About a dozen men were standing or seated on stools round
the bar with one bloke in a floppy captain's hat sitting at a table
pencilling a betting card. All Les knew about drinking in South
Australia was, certain beers were pretty ordinary and instead of pots
and middies, they drank butcher's. He walked over to the bar and
ordered a butcher's out of a red tap, then stepped over to one of the
windows and took a mouthful. It tasted like dog's piss. Bloody hell, thought Les. No wonder they call them butcher's. A couple of these
and you'd be butcher's hook all right. You'd be dead. He took another
sip to make sure he wasn't imagining things, shook his head and
placed the beer on a small table beneath a glass noticeboard.
Something inside the noticeboard caught Norton's eye. J.D. won
Friday night's meat raffle. Under that another short notice said, Victor Harbor Angling Club will close if we don't get members' support. Les read it again then stared out the window. Angling club? Les was
expecting professional fishermen. Not anglers. And the angling club
was folding up. No wonder that woman on the bike didn't feel the
cold. She wouldn't know what day it was. There wouldn't be two
fishermen in the whole bloody joint. Les stared out the window and
shook his head. I don't believe it. After a few moments, Les shifted his
gaze from the window back to the bloke in the captain's cap. He had a
trimmed beard and a weathered face. Fuck it, thought Les, I'm here
now I suppose. He took the photo from his backpack and
approached the man in the captain's cap.
'Excuse me, mate,' said Les.
The bloke looked at Les indifferently. 'Yeah, what's up?'
'I'm looking for the crew of a boat. You wouldn't know these
blokes, would you?' Les showed the man in the cap the photo.
The bloke looked at the photo for a second, laughed and called
out to the bar. 'Hey Merv, Harry. Come over here.' Two rugged
looking men in their late twenties, wearing check shirts and beanies,
left the bar and came over. One of them had a brown moustache, the
other had two tear drops tattooed next to his left eye. 'Have a look at
this. This bloke's looking for the crew of this boat. What do you
reckon?'
The two men looked at the photo then all three of them started
laughing amongst themselves. Les couldn't see what the big joke was.
The bloke with the tattoos stopped laughing, took a drag on his
cigarette and turned to Les.
'So you're looking for the crew of that boat, are you mate?' he said,
breathing smoke all over Les.
'That's right,' replied Les.
'You're not a poofter, are you?'
'What?' said Les.
'Are you a poofter, mate?' asked the bloke with the moustache.
'No. I'm not a bloody poofter,' said Les indignantly.
'You sure?' said the bloke in the captain's cap.
'Yeah -- I'm sure,' said Les.
Tattoos shook his head. 'I reckon you're a poofter.'
'So do I mate,' added Moustache.
The bloke in the captain's hat gave Les a very indifferent and and down. 'I reckon you are, too.'
Les could feel his fuse starting to burn out rapidly. Another hi
minute and they'd soon know whether he was a poofter or not. took a deep breath, slid the photo into his backpack and closed it.
'Sorry,' said Norton quietly. 'I was just trying to find those blokes
in the photo. It appears I've made a mistake. Thank you for yours trouble.'
'That's all right -- sweetheart,' said Tattoos.
Moustache gave Les a wink. 'Are you sure you wouldn't like a pink
lemonade before you go?'
'They got straws,' said the man in the captain's cap. And little umbrellas.'
Les smiled thinly. 'No thank you. I'm not thirsty. And I think it's
best I leave.'
Les swallowed his anger and headed for the door. Fuckin wallys. I
should have known better. He was just about to open the door when
who should walk in but the big bloke with the sidelevers he'd flattened
earlier. He was wearing a black leather jacket and white sticking plaster
all over his nose. Two enormous black eyes blinked painfully from
behind the plaster and his jaw was wired up. Close behind him were
two blokes almost as big. One was wearing a grey gaberdine trenchcoat,
the other had on a bulky white jumper. As soon as Sidelevers recognised
who it was, his face darkened and he turned to his two mates.
'Grrhhnngggmmgh. Grmrngh brrghh,' he grunted, pointing
angrily at Les.
'Ohh go fuck yourself,' replied Les, and stormed past them out the A or He was across the footpath, heading for his car when he heard a voice behind him.
'Hey. You with the fuckin backpack.'
Les stopped and turned around. It was the bloke in the woollen
jumper. Sidelevers and his two mates had followed him straight out
of the hotel with Sidelevers bringing up the rear.
'Yeah, fuckin what?' replied Les.
'We want to see you,' said the one wearing the trenchcoat.
Norton's fuse suddenly burnt out. 'You're going to wish you
hadn't,' he hissed, and dropped his backpack on the footpath.
Les walked up to the bloke in the woollen jumper, feinted a left
to his chin then belted a short right under his floating rib. The
bloke's eyes bulged and his mouth gaped open as Les doubled up
with another short right over the top. The bloke's legs wobbled as
it slammed into his jaw and he fell down on his backside, eyes
glazed, wondering what hit him. The bloke in the trenchcoat on
Norton's right swung a left at Norton's head. Les stepped outside it
and grabbed the bloke by the arm with his left hand then pulled
him forward and back-fisted him in the mouth, ripping his lips
open. Les gave him another one then straightened his right arm
under the bloke's chin and thumped his right knee into the bloke's
kidneys. The bloke fell back over Norton's leg and banged the back
of his head on the footpath as he landed at Norton's feet. Les left
him and walked across to Sidelevers who was looking for a hole
he could crawl into and something he could drag over the top
with him.

'You big weak prick,' said Les. 'Look what you've done.' Les jerked
a thumb at Sidelevers' mates lying bleeding on the footpath. 'I hope
you're happy.'
Sidelevers looked like he was ready to crap his pants. 'Nnghhh.
Nghhh.'
'Shut up,' ordered Les. 'This is all your fault. And now you're going
to have to pay the penalty.'
'Nnnnhh. Nnnhh. Gmmh nnh unh mghh.'
Les was going to belt Sidelevers in the jaw again and smash it up
some more. But he just couldn't be that cruel. Instead, he stepped back
and kicked him hard in the balls. Sidelevers grunted with pain and
sank to the ground clutching his groin. The worst part was he couldn't
scream and everything bottled up inside him. Eventually the strain and
the pressure were too much and the capillaries in his eyeballs burst,
sending blood seeping onto the white sticking plaster across his nose.
Les watched him for a moment then looked up. The three blokes he'd
shown the photo to had come out to see what was going on.
Les smiled at them. 'Now. Which one of you hillbillies reckons I'm
a poofter?'
The one with the tattoos shook his head vehemently. 'Not me
mate,' he said, and scurried back inside.
The either,' added Moustache, turning to join his mate. 'Never said
a word.'
'What about you, Captain Ahab?' asked Les. 'What have you got to
say
'I was just thinking,' said the bloke in the captain's cap, 'that was a
really clear photo. What sort of camera did you use?'
Les picked up his backpack and got in the car. A few people had
gathered in front of the hotel and he knew the best move now would
be to put as much distance between himself and Victor Harbor as
possible, before the wallopers arrived.
Rather than take the main street after reversing out, Les turned
left, past a video arcade and a second-hand bookshop, and came
round a back way near a garage. On the way out of town Les saw the
sign again: Victor Harbor, where you're always welcome. Yeah
terrific. Unless you feed the seagulls or you're a poofter looking for a
boat.
The turn-off to Goolwa went by, then the farms and countryside.
Les stared into the twin beams of light splitting the darkness ahead of
him and shook his head. The trip to Adelaide had turned out to be a
complete waste of time and money. And deep inside Les had had a
feeling it would. He just didn't think it would end in so much
violence and people laughing at him and calling him a poof. On the
other hand, it would have been no use staying in Sydney. He had to
take a punt. Maybe if he hadn't breached his bail conditions it would
have worked out differently. Who knows? Anyway, it was too late now
and he was looking at a very dismal future when he got home. Very
dismal indeed. He started thinking about some of the things that had
happened on the trip and flashed on to the romp he had with Blythe
at the Medlow. That was fun all right, mused Les. But you still can't
beat a good root. Les laughed mirthlessly. That's something I can
forget about, starting Monday. My sex life. Unless I want to chase
drag queens around Long Bay. Yes, it had certainly turned out a
bummer all right. Les blanked his mind and just stared through the
windscreen, totally zoned out. He didn't bother listening to a tape; he
didn't even notice any of the hamlets or turn-offs going past. Les just
stared ahead, thinking about absolutely nothing.
'Right turn. Five hundred metres.'
Les slowed down and swung the Hyundai right. He didn't notice
the name of the road, but glimpsed a sign saying watch out for low
level branches. Les drove on down a narrow sealed road covered
with a thin layer of mist, the headlights picking up dense forest on
the right side of the road and a plantation of tall pine trees on the
other. Beyond that the car was enveloped in total darkness.
'In two hundred metres, take the next turn on your right.'
Les slowed down again and turned right into the forest. A narrow,
dirt road full of potholes and gutters rose up through the trees. Next
thing a bumping, banging sound came from under the car. The noise
seemed to snap Les out of his trance.
'Hey! What the fuck am I doing?' he exclaimed. 'This isn't the way
to Adelaide.'
Les stopped the car and looked around him. Christ. Am I a nice
goose or what? I was bloody miles away. I deserve to have that
navigator shoved up my arse. What was that noise though? Shit!
Knowing my luck, something's probably gone through the fuckin petrol tank. Les quickly turned everything off, found the torch in his backpack, then got out and shone it beneath the car. A branch had
jammed itself under a firewall. He wrenched it away, tossed it to one
side of the road then switched the torch off and stood next to the car.
It was quite eerie standing out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded
by a black, leaden silence that seemed to close in on everything. It was
also very exhilarating. Suddenly the sky lit up and great shafts of light
beamed down through the trees. At first Les thought it was a UFO. It
turned out to be the biggest, brightest full moon Les had ever seen,
drifting momentarily between a bank of clouds like a huge ball of
beautifully polished silver. Les stared at it in awe before it disappeared
back behind the clouds again and darkness returned. Shit! What
about that? thought Les. That was unreal. Les was about to get back in
the car when somewhere in the distance he heard the most awful
scream he'd ever heard in his life. It split the darkness like a bolt of
imaginary lightning and clamped an icy hand around Norton's heart.
It was a woman's scream. Not of pain. A scream of sheer, hysterical
terror. There was another scream, followed by a horrific wail.
'No. No. Help me. Somebody. Please HELP me.'
It seemed to be coming from somewhere near the top of the hill.
Another scream sent a chill up Norton's spine, then it abruptly
stopped. Les found his heart starting to quicken. Shit! I don't like the
sound of that. Some poor sheila's in bad trouble. Les stared into the
darkness towards where the screams had come from. Fuckin hell! As
if I can't get into enough trouble as it is, he cursed, without playing
Dudley fuckin Do Right. Why me all the time? Shit! Leaving the car
where it was, Les picked up the branch, broke off the skinny end to
make a club, and followed the dirt road up the hill.
As he approached the top Les could hear people chanting, ringing
bells and beating drums. When he got there, he could see a driveway
leading back to an old abandoned farmhouse with cars parked around
the front and lights glowing out the back. Les stopped near some trees
for a closer look. The farmhouse was red-brick and sandstone, just
like the old buildings in Goolwa, but not very big. The front door and?
windows were boarded up and two chimneys along the side squatted
on a rusty galvanised-iron roof. A stone wall with several gaps in it
formed a perimeter around the farmhouse and the remains of a high
wooden gate stood out the front. At the end of the driveway, a man
wearing a Driz-A-Bone and a woollen beanie was leaning against a
tree with a gun over his shoulder. He had his back to the road and if
seemed more interested in what was going on at the back of the
farmhouse than anything else. Quieter than a silkworm tiptoeing on a
silk hanky, Les snuck up on the man and belted him across the side of
his head with the branch, knocking him unconscious. As the man fell
silently to the ground, Les grabbed the gun; it was a fully loaded
pump-action shotgun. Les cradled it for a moment, then left it against
the tree, knowing it was there if he needed it. There was a piece of
cord hanging from the man's coat; Les ripped it off, tied the man's
thumbs together then stuffed his beanie in his mouth. Gripping the
piece of branch, Les kept low and snuck across to a gap in the stone
wall to see what the man in the Driz-A-Bone had been looking at.
The stone wall formed a backyard at the rear of the farmhouse.
Outdoor heaters were placed round the yard and candles and
hurricane lamps flickered on the walls. A wooden table sat against
one wall, draped with a sheet of black satin. Placed on the sheet was a
solid bronze candelabra, a chalice, several animal figurines and black
velvet cushions embroidered with gold stars and pentangles.
Standing in the yard were about twenty naked old people in varying
degrees of ugliness and obesity. The men wore chains and medallions
round their necks and carried small drums. The women had weird
masks made from bird feathers over their eyes and held tiny bells.
One particularly grotesque old man was wearing a fur hat made from
a ram's head complete with horns; in his hands was a long silver knife
with a black handle. Next to him was another old man wearing a
silver mask shaped like a hawk; he was carrying a ram's horn painted
with gold to look like a penis. They were all grouped around a
wooden altar covered with a sheet of white satin. Tied to the altar by
her hands and feet with a gag over her mouth was a struggling,
terrified young woman, her blonde hair tied at the back and adorned
with flowers. She was dressed in a long white gown, cut low across
her shoulders with wide billowing sleeves and laced round her waist
was a maroon bodice. Standing behind her was an old woman
holding a hypodermic syringe. She removed the gag from the young
woman who immediately started screaming again. The man wearing
the ram's head started waving the knife about, reciting some ritual,
while the others beat their drums and tinkled their bells.
'Oh mighty Azalzak, lord of earth, water, wind and fire, wand and
sword. Prince of Darkness, Ruler of Spirits, come ye unto life as the
sacrifice is made.'
'Azalzak. Azalzak. Azalzak,' chorused the others.
'Hear the offering's screams, oh mighty Azalzak. As they waken ye
from the night. And beckon ye unto our desire.'
'Azalzak. Azalzak. Azalzak.'
'Oh ye mighty Azalzak, hear her screams. Soon you shall taste her
body. Then you will drink her blood from the witches' blade.'
At the word blood the woman on the altar almost screamed her
lungs out and started thrashing around that much it looked as if
she'd break her bonds. The man wearing the silver bird's mask then
lifted the young woman's dress up and began working the ram's horn
towards her vagina. The man in the ram's head gave the woman with
the syringe a nod and with the help of another woman she was able
to prepare a vein in the young woman's arm and stick the syringe in.
A steady push with her thumb and the woman went completely
comatose.
Watching grimfaced through the gap in the stone wall, Les was
almost sick as he realised what he had stumbled across out in the
Adelaide Hills. It was a coven of Devil worshippers, Satanists,
Antichrists, or whatever their ungodly trip was. Not a bunch of
flower-smelling, spell-casting, flute-blowing Wiccas. These were full
on, black magic, murdering nutters, complete with a high priest
ready to perform a human sacrifice. You could bet this was where half
those people in the photos outside the police station had finished
up -- as offerings to Azalzak or whoever. The chanting, drum
banging and bell-ringing got louder. The man in the ram's head
raised the knife above his head.
'Now mighty Azalzak. Now. Taste her blood.'
'Taste the blood. Taste the blood. Azalzak. Azalzak. Taste the
blood.'
That was enough for Dudley Do Right. Les stood up and flung the
branch at the high priest. It turned end over end and the thick part
whacked the high priest in the mouth. He gave a surprised shout and
fell back, dropping the knife over the altar. A hush went through the
coven and they all stopped chanting and banging their drums and
ringing their bells. The man with the bird mask turned to see what had
happened to the high priest as Les leapt through the gap in the wall,
shouting and yelling at the top of his voice to get the coven off guard.
'Go on. Get back. Get back,' Les clamoured. 'Keep away from her.
Leave her alone. Piss off, the fuckin lot of you. You horrible-looking
bags of shit.'
Les ran across to the altar and picked up the knife from where the
high priest had dropped it. He brandished it at the coven and kept yelling at them.
'Go on. Get back you rotten, evil fuckin things,' he shouted. 'Get
back. Or I'll cut your fuckin heads off. I'll kill the lot of you. I'll rip
your guts out.'
The coven drew back with shock as Les slashed the cords tying the
woman's arms and legs, and took her round the waist. She was a
completely dead weight and it was like trying to pick up a wobbling
sack of jelly. Still shouting his head off, Les managed to get the girl
over his shoulder in a fireman's carry while he waved the knife at the
coven.
'Go on. Keep away, you motherless bastards,' he howled. 'Fuck off.'
The coven withdrew from Les. A couple started to taunt him and
hiss obscenities. Les didn't see one old woman sneak up behind him
with the heavy brass candelabra. She raised it and swung it at his
head just as Les bent a little to shrug the girl from round his neck.
The candelabra missed his head but thumped down hard on
Norton's shoulder, making him drop the knife.
'Ow shit,' yelped Les, the pain almost paralysing his arm.
He spun around just as the old woman brought the candelabra up
to hit him again. She was fat and ugly with grey hair and great,
droopy breasts and looked eighty-five if she was a day and was!
probably somebody's dear old grandmother. Les smashed her with a
straight left that split the old woman's mouth open, cracked her top plate and dumped her on her flabby, wrinkled backside. Les
reshuffled the young woman on his shoulder as the man in the bird
mask picked up the knife.
'Come on. Get the unbeliever,' he called to the others.
The coven advanced on Les. Some started picking up rocks, another had hold of the brass candelabra as they grouped behind the one holding the knife. On his own Les would have left them for dead, but I'. juggling a dead weight on his shoulders slowed him almost to a walk.
Under a hail of rocks, Les got through the gap in the wall and made it
to the tree where he'd left the shotgun. He dropped the woman on the
ground, took the shotgun and aimed it at the parked cars.
'Blam! Blam! Blam!'
Les shot out the three nearest windscreens, sending wiper blades
and pieces of glass flying everywhere.
'Look out,' shouted the old man with the knife. 'He's got Martin's gun.'
Blam! Les sent another blast into one of the outdoor heaters,
spewing gas and sparks across the backyard.
'My bloody oath I have', shouted Les. 'Now piss off, before I blow
the lot of you to hell. Where you fuckin well all belong.'
The coven stopped in their tracks. Les fired another shot into the
galvanised-iron roof, then picked up the girl and jogged back to the
car. He opened the door and dumped the girl in the front seat,
quickly doing up her seat belt. Before he got in alongside her, Les
emptied the shotgun into the trees near the farmhouse, then threw
the gun into the scrub. As soon as he was behind the wheel, Les
shoved the Hyundai into drive and spun it around in a tight circle,
sending rocks and clods of mud everywhere. He straightened up,
belted back down the dirt road, did a screeching left turn at the end,
then further on fishtailed a smoking right onto the main road back to
Adelaide. A few kilometres along the road Les slowed down a little,
took a deep breath and tried to stop his heart from pounding its way
out of his chest and through the seat belt.
Bloody hell! What about that. Those ratbags were just about to cut
that poor girl's throat. Thank Christ I came along. Or thank Christ
that navigator's on the blink, or whatever. I don't know about those
other directions it was giving me. Half the time I was looking at the
map. But that was just sheer coincidence. Les looked at the night sky
and shook his head. Or an act of God. The girl had slid around inside
the seat belt. Les adjusted it and straightened her up so she didn't
bang her head on the door. I don't know who you are, sweetheart, but
you've got a guardian angel, that's for bloody sure. Les started
checking her out.
She looked to be in her early twenties with a pretty face, nice lips
and corn blonde hair, which looked quite beautiful with the flowers
in it. She had big breasts and could have been a little overweight, but
a bit of exercise and she'd be a stunner. I wonder who she is? thought
Les. And I wonder where she comes from? Then another thought
struck Les. What am I going to do with her? Shit! I can't take her to
the police, or I'll go with her. And I can't just dump her somewhere.
She's out like a light and anything could happen to her the way she is.
Les caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Good old Dudley!
Do Right. I'm going to have to take her back to the hotel. Let her sleep there and if she doesn't wake up by the morning call a doctor
before I split for Sydney. I wonder what they hit her with? That old
tart looked like she might have been a nurse at one time the way she
prepared her arm before she shoved the pick in. Probably valium or
something like that. Christ! I wonder what she'll think when she
wakes up? I hope she doesn't start screaming blue murder. Les looked
at the girl, her head down, moving with the motion of the car behind
the seat belt. Poor bastard. After what she's just been through, you
wouldn't blame her if she did.
Les cruised on into the night and started to relax. Even though his
trip to Adelaide had turned out a complete disaster, it did have one
redeeming feature: he'd saved some poor girl from a terrible fate. Les
laughed mirthlessly. I wonder if the beak'll take that into account
when he throws me in the slammer? Whether or not, Norton's good
deed did make him feel better. A bit further along he switched on the
radio and got some FM station playing mouldy oldies. Sam the Sham
and the Pharaohs were singing 'Little Red Riding Hood'. Les looked at
the unconscious girl and started singing a bodgie version of the lyrics.
'Hey there little Miss May Queen baby, watcha doin out in that
South Australian bush alone'.
He topped a hill and suddenly beneath the night sky the lights of
Adelaide burst across the horizon like a ribbon of beautiful flowers.
Les turned to his unknown passenger again and smiled at the
uncanny resemblance in her hair. How about I nickname you the
May Queen, sweetheart. It suits you in that outfit. The next song on
the radio was 'Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds'. Les was singing away
as he swung onto the Southern Expressway. He'd reached the traffic
lights at the end when he heard a familiar voice.
'Right turn, five hundred metres.'
'Yeah, that'd be right you dope,' said Les, turning left to follow the
traffic into Adelaide. 'I'll finish up in Port Lincoln.'
'In two hundred metres, take the next turn on your right.'
'Sure. Straight into the oncoming traffic you moron. Right. That's
it for you, you low-life slut,' said Les. 'You're sacked. You'd think
Muhammad Ali was a street in Cairo.' Les jabbed at whatever buttons
on the navigator he could find. 'Piss off. I never want to see you
again.'
'Softer. Softer.'
'Ohh shut up. You're nothing but a slaggy moll.'
Some more old pop songs played, Les saw a familiar street sign,
then another and another. He hung a right and finally pulled up in
front of the Adelaide Grande. The concierge came over and opened
the passenger door first. He gave a double blink when he saw the girl
lolling behind the seat belt wearing a long puffy gown, a maroon
bodice, flowers in her hair, no shoes and no knickers. Les picked up
his backpack, came round and got the girl out of the car and put her
left arm around his neck.
'Can you manage all right, Mr Ullrich?' asked the concierge.
'Yes. My fiancee's just had a few too many magic mushrooms,
that's all,' replied Les, and dragged the girl into the foyer.
As luck would have it, there was a ball downstairs in the hotel, so
plenty of half plastered girls wearing long gowns were getting
shouldered all round the foyer by plenty of half plastered men in
tuxedos. None, however, were completely out on their feet with their
boobs flopping everywhere like the girl with Les, and they were
wearing a lot more under their evening gowns as well. The more
sober patrons gave Les a double blink as he dragged the May Queen
over to the lifts, as did the three young Japanese tourists waiting for a
lift and two young girls with their shoes off behind them. A lift
pinged and Les bundled the May Queen inside. From there it was an
embarrassing silence all the way to the twenty-third floor.
Les dragged the May Queen back to his room, pulled the sheets back
and lowered her onto the right side of the bed, lying her on her left side.
He got a towel from the bathroom and placed it under her head, then
put a small rubbish bin by the side of the bed in case she woke up sick.
He checked the girl's pulse again then watched her for a moment and
wondered what else he could do. Nothing. But at least she was safe.
What Les felt like now was a drink and a debriefing. He splashed some
water over his face, then got a lift down to the foyer.
The Torrens Bar was packed with revellers from the ball along
with the normal Saturday night punters. A duo in black, comprising
a skinny brunette and a skinny dark-haired bloke, were warbling 'My
Guy' in front of a half full dancefloor. Like the night before, the place
was full of cigarette smoke and the cigar cabinet was doing a roaring
trade. Les blinked at the smoke and had half a mind to give it a miss.
He got a JD and ice with a bottle of VB and fluked a stool next to a
pillar facing the dancefloor. The duo cut into 'Blame It On The
Boogie' and the dancefloor filled up with shuffling couples. Les took
a belt of JD and washed it down with beer. Yeah, he thought grimly,
don't blame it on the sunshine, don't blame it on the moonlight,
don't blame it on the good times, blame it on the devil. Bloody hell!
What a fuckin freak-out. Imagine if that old sheila had clobbered me
with the candelabra. I'd have finished tied up on the altar with the
May Queen as an offering to Zamzak or whoever it was those lunatics
were praying to. He swallowed some more booze. Gary sure was
right. This is a spooky fuckin joint. I haven't got much to look
forward to when I get home, but I'll be glad when I'm back in
Sydney. Les sipped his drinks and let his eyes drift around the bar at
the punters in basic black with sequined bolero jackets, silver belt
buckles or whatever as the duo struck up 'Celebration Time'. Les
finished his drinks. Celebrate without me, folks. It's all yours. He left
the revellers to it and got the lift back to his room.
The beer settled Les down and on the way back to his room he
began to feel weary. Plus he was aching where the old woman had hit
him with the candelabra. When he opened the door, the May Queen
still hadn't moved. Les checked to see if she was all right, then
stripped off and got under the shower.
He had a nice bruise coming up on his left shoulder and another
near his kidneys where someone had got him with a rock. Les stayed
under the shower for a while letting the hot water soothe his aches
and pains then dried off and got into a clean white T-shirt and jox.
He took a bottle of mineral water from the mini-bar, stared out the
window while he drank it, yawned a couple of times, then switched off the lights and got into bed with his back to the girl.
It was odd being in bed with someone after sleeping on his own and Norton's share of the pillows weren't comfortable the way he was.
He was forced to roll over. He tried to close his eyes, but he kept
staring at the May Queen. The rise and fall of her shapely body looked
truly delicious bathed in the soft light coming through the hotel
window. Christ, this is going to be nice, thought Les. Trying to sleep
with that lying in front of me. The girl still hadn't moved and it didn't
even look like she was breathing. Les thought he'd better check her
pulse again to make sure she hadn't expired. No. Her skin was warm
and there was a steady pulse in her neck. Les slipped his hand under
the May Queen's arm. She also had a good heartbeat. She also had a
great pair of tits. Les knew he shouldn't do it and there was guilt
written all over his face, but he started giving them a little squeeze.
They felt sensational. Mr Wobbly started to thinking the same thing
too. As Les squeezed the May Queen's boobs, Mr Wobbly forced Les to
rub his evil little head against her shapely backside. Within minutes
Les had a horn that hard you could have shattered roof tiles on it,
and he was in a pitched battle between himself, his conscience and
Mr Wobbly.
By rights the girl shouldn't even be there. She should be dead.
Another half a minute and she would have been. Les had risked his
neck to save her from the devil. So, literally, she owed him her life.
Okay, it was wrong. Very wrong. It was statutory rape. But on
Monday he was going to gaol anyway. What did he have to lose? And
what could they do if they found out? Give him another ten years on
the life sentence he was already going to get? Besides, the May Queen
was that out of it she wouldn't know anyway. Les squeezed her lovely
big boobs. Christ! I'd kill for a root right now. And she definitely
owes me one. What the fuck, I'm going to give her one. Better the
devil you don't know, my child, thought Les, slipping off his jox, than
the devil you almost did. Mr Wobbly wholeheartedly agreed. Les
lifted up the May Queen's gown, placed his hands on her hips and
slipped Mr Wobbly in from behind.
Right wrong or indifferent, the May Queen's ted felt fabulous;
warm and tight and juicy. Plus it was the taste of forbidden fruit.
Les also didn't have to worry whether he was going too hard, too fast
or too slow. Just do your own thing in your own time. It still wasn't as
good as going off with someone. But hey, it was on the house. And
who's complaining? The May Queen certainly wasn't. She didn't bat
an eyelid. Didn't say a word. Les felt the vinegar strokes coming on so
he started going for it. A minute or two later he squeezed his eyes
shut, groaned with ecstasy and emptied out.
'Whoah ho! Shit! Bloody hell! Oh yeah, ohhhhh yeah.'
Les finally shuddered to a halt and pulled out a very happy
Mr Wobbly. After he got his breath back, Les smiled to himself, put
his jox back on and got a towel from the bathroom. He gave the May
Queen a wipe, wiped around the bed then dropped the towel on the
floor and rolled over. That, Les chuckled to himself, I say that, should
solve any problems I've got about sleeping. Les reached behind him
and gave the May Queen a pat on the behind. Goodnight, sweetie, he
smiled in the darkness. Les closed his eyes and crashed out.
Les was in a field somewhere. He was naked. Covered in flowers.
He started running. All these strange people in weird masks were
chasing him. They had shotguns. A flock of seagulls flew over his
head. They started shooting the seagulls. Dead seagulls started to fall
around him. The field turned into a tunnel. At the end of the tunnel
was a pack of snarling dogs. Rottweilers. Albert Knox had them on a
lead. He dropped the lead. Les woke up and blinked at the clock
radio. It was four in the morning. The girl was still lying just as he'd
left her. Les checked to see if she was all right. She was. Next thing,
Mr Wobbly wanted to know if the girl was all right too. Still half
asleep, Les started giving the May Queen another one. It felt just as
good as the first. Maybe better and it took a little longer. Les emptied
out and wiped up again. Well, he thought as he closed his eyes, that
should keep me going for the next thirty years or so. Les crashed out.
He didn't have any more bad dreams.
Les woke up about nine. The girl had rolled over onto her back
during the night and now she was gently snoring. Although the
flowers in her hair had wilted, she still looked beautiful in the
morning light. Les got out of bed and had a shower. He dried off, got
back into his tracksuit and a clean T-shirt and stared out the window.
There were patches of blue in the sky, but the trees below were
moving steadily with the wind and it still looked cold. Les was
starving hungry and would have loved to have gone down and eaten
another bucket of Bircher Muesli. Only he didn't fancy leaving the
May Queen on her own in case she woke up totally freaked out and
started running round the hotel screaming her head off. He made a
cup of tea and chewed a hotel biscuit. Les was staring out the window
and thinking of ringing room service for some food when he heard
movement behind him. He turned around and saw the girl was
starting to sit up. Les put his tea down, got a bottle of soda water
from the mini-bar, opened it and sat on the end of the bed like a
family doctor on a house call. The girl rolled her head around as if it
weighed a tonne, then blinked her eyes open. They were a soft hazel.
She looked up and saw Les at the end of the bed and a puzzled look
came over her face. Then she noticed what she was wearing and saw
the flower petals on the bed and her face went white. She shrank
back, wide-eyed with terror and looked as if she was going to scream.
Les placed his hand gently over her mouth.
'It's all right. It's all right,' he said softly. 'You're okay. You're safe.
No one's going to hurt you. Don't scream. Don't scream.' He took his
hand away and offered the girl the bottle of soda water. 'Here. Drink
this. It's only soda water and it'll make you feel better. Come on.
Take a sip. It'll do you good,' Les assured her.
The girl's hands were shaking as she took the bottle. She had a few
mouthfuls but never took her eyes off Les. Les eased back to the end
of the bed as the girl drank some more soda water, then belched
lightly into her hand. She took a quick, nervous look around the
room and stared at Les again.
'Where am I? Please tell me where I am,' she pleaded. 'I'm all
confused. Who are you? What's ... ?'
'Take it easy. Everything's all right,' said Les. 'You're in a hotel in
Adelaide.' Les opened his wallet and showed the girl his driver's
licence. 'That's me. My name's Les Norton.'
The girl looked at the driver's licence. 'You're from Sydney?'
'That's right,' nodded Les. 'This is my hotel room.'
'How ... ? How did I get here?'
'I'm going to tell you. But would you like a cup of tea first? Or a
coffee?' The girl shook her head. 'All right. Well, I'd better warn you,
it's not a very pretty story. What's your name, anyway?'
'Roxy. Roxy Boswell.'
'Okay Roxy. This is what happened.'
Les picked up on driving back from Victor Harbor and taking the
wrong turn because of his Avis Navigator. How he heard her screams.
Knocking out the guard. What he saw. Everything. Roxy stared at Les
wide-eyed as she gulped down the rest of the soda water. Les told her
how he got her in the car then wasn't sure what to do. He was a bit
shook up himself. So he brought her back to the hotel and put her to
bed. If she hadn't woken up before long, he added, he was going to
call the hotel doctor.
'And that's about it Roxy,' said Les. 'Like I told you. It wasn't pretty.'
'Oh my God,' she gasped. 'It's all coming back to me now. Those
horrible old men and women. And that man with the ... Oh God!'
Roxy started to hyperventilate.
Les read her mind, took her by the arm and steered her towards
the bathroom. 'Why don't you have a shower and that while you're in
there,' he said. 'There's plenty of towels. And there's a hair dryer next
to the mirror.'
'Thanks,' mumbled Roxy.
Les closed the door behind her and settled back on the bed.
Everything had turned out fine. Apart from being very shaken up,
Roxy wasn't too bad. She didn't start screaming and she didn't faint.
Considering what she'd been through, she showed a lot of heart. Les
switched on the TV and got Sunday with Jim Waley. He watched it till
Roxy eventually came out of the shower. She'd taken off the bodice
and let her hair down and the colour had returned to her face.
'How do you feel now?' asked Les, switching off the TV.
'A lot better thanks,' answered Roxy. She gave Les a coy smile. 'I
hope you don't mind, but I borrowed your swimmers.'
'That's okay,' said Les. 'Would you like a coffee or something?'
'I wouldn't mind another bottle of soda water, if that's all right.
I'm so dry.'
'Sure,' said Les. He got a bottle of mineral water from the mini-bar
and handed it to her. 'Are you hungry?'
Roxy took a healthy swig on the bottle of mineral water and
belched quietly into her hand. 'I'm absolutely starving.'
'Good. So am I. And they do a continental breakfast here, make
you jump fences.'
'All right.' Roxy finished the bottle of mineral water, closed her
eyes for a moment and shook her head. 'God I'm still
'Don't worry about it,' said Les easily. 'Come on. Let's go and eat,
and we'll have a talk over breakfast.'
They caught the lift and Les escorted Roxy into the Regency Club.
The May Queen got a few second looks from the other guests before
Les settled her down at a nice table by the fountain. He told her to
stay there and be his guest then got a tray and loaded it up with
Bircher Muesli, fruit, coffee, toast and OJ and they both ripped in.
They followed up with smoked salmon on toast and ham and
finished nibbling croissants and sipping more coffee.
'Well, how was that?' asked Les.
'It was delicious,' replied Roxy, patting her stomach. 'Thank you
very much, Les.'
'I'm glad you enjoyed it.' Les sipped his coffee and smiled at the May Queen. She definitely looked more relaxed after a good meal
but Les sensed she was still nervous. He decided to try a little light
conversation. 'So tell us a bit about yourself, Roxy. Are you from
round here? Or ... ?'
Roxy flicked some long blonde hair across one eye. 'Tell you a bit
about myself. There's not really that much to tell, Les.'
Roxy was twenty-nine. She grew up in Adelaide but she'd lived in
Victor Harbor with her mother for the last ten years since her parents
were divorced. She had an older brother in Adelaide who owned a
computer shop. He was married with two children. She worked in an
office in Victor Harbor for her uncle who had a car dealership there.
Roxy wasn't seeing anyone in particular at the moment. She had a
boyfriend, a musician. But he moved to Melbourne and he was too
into drugs for her liking anyway. She liked Victor Harbor. It was quiet
and it suited her because she was trying to write a book. She'd done a
writing course and had a couple of short stories published in
women's magazines. She didn't go out that much. If she did, she'd go
to Adelaide and stay at her brother's house in West Beach.
'And that's about it, Les,' said Roxy. 'I'm just a battling little Crow
Eater doing her best.'
'You're writing a book,' said Les. 'Unreal. What's it about?'
Roxy shrugged a little self consciously. 'It's about a girl who joins a
rock band and gets involved in murder and drugs and ... has to sort
it out.'

'Yeah? What are you going to call it?'
'I was thinking, While My Guitar Gently Screams'
'Hey. I like it,' smiled Les. 'I reckon you could be on a winner.'
'I hope so. I'd love to be a writer.'
'Well, I hope you get there, Roxy.'
'Thanks, Les.'
Les got two fresh coffees and another croissant between them.
Roxy had opened up, but Les sensed she still had something bottled
up inside her. He decided it was time to uncork the bottle.
'So how come you finished up with those ratbags in the old
farmhouse?' he asked.
'How come?' Roxy took a deep breath and stared into her coffee for
a moment. 'I was out having a walk. I walk for an hour nearly every
day. I was near some bush not far from home when this old couple in
a campervan pulled up and asked me how to get to Hindmarsh
Island. When I told them, they asked me to come closer to the car
because they were a bit deaf. I went over and the next thing I knew,
someone had come from behind and put a cloth over my mouth with
something on it. I went all giddy and they bundled me into the back
of the campervan. I didn't have time to yell out or anything.'
'What time was this?' asked Les.
'About six. It had just turned dark and I was on my way home.'
Roxy sipped some more coffee. 'They tied me up. Gagged me and
blindfolded me. I came to a couple of times, but they put that cloth
back over my nose. I remember coming to and I was in these clothes.
Then I woke up in that farmhouse tied to an altar or whatever it was
out in the open. There was a huge full moon for a few moments.
Then I saw all those horrible old people standing around me beating
drums. And that man with the knife and that other man with the ram's horn. Then they took the gag out and I started screaming.'
'That's about when I arrived,' said Les. 'I heard you half
kilometre away.'
'Thank God you did.'
'Yeah,' conceded Les.
'After that it was a nightmare. That man waving the knife around.
The other man with that ... that thing. Then I heard one say
something about drink my blood. And the other said ... something
else. And I just flipped out. I went crazy. Then that woman stuck a
needle in my arm and that was it. Next thing I remember waking up
in bed and you're offering me soda water. I didn't know where I was.'
'I'm sorry I had to put my hand over your mouth. But I thought
you were going to start screaming again,' said Les. 'You've sure got a
good set of lungs on you Roxy. I mean ... noisewise,' added Les. 'But
you didn't, you were cool. You're a brave girl.'
Roxy shook her head. 'I don't know about that. I was absolutely
terrified.'
'Who wouldn't be?'
Roxy gave Les the same coy look she gave him when she borrowed
his Speedos. 'Les,' she said, a touch of colour in her cheeks, 'there's
something I have to ask you.'
'Sure,' replied Les. 'What is it?'
'That man in the bird mask holding the ram's horn. Did he ... ?'
Les nodded slowly. 'Yes, I'm afraid he did, Roxy. I just didn't quite
get there in time to stop that. I'm sorry.'

'That's okay,' said Roxy quietly.
'But it was only for a few seconds or so. It wasn't long. What
makes you ask, anyway?'
'Oh. It's just that I'm a little sore down there. That's all.'
Les sipped some coffee. 'Yeah, well. At least I got there before
that other nutter got in the act with the knife. Or ... well, we won't go
into that.'
Roxy reached over the table and took Norton's hand and
squeezed it. 'You're very reassuring, Les. You know that. And you're
very understanding too.'
'Whatever,' shrugged Les. 'But I know how you feel, Roxy. You've
been through hell. And now you've got to try and put it behind you.'
Roxy let go of Norton's hand sat back against her chair, taking
him in. She seemed a lot brighter now that she'd faced up to what
happened and got certain things off her chest.
'Anyway, what about you? Mr Les Norton from Sydney,' she
smiled. 'What brings you to Adelaide? I suppose you're on some sort
of business trip?'
Les threw back his head and laughed. 'A business trip? Yeah. That'd
be right.' He smiled at Roxy for a second or two. 'All right, Roxy. I'll
give you the whole deal. Shit! I got nothing to lose.' Les took another
sip of coffee. 'Was there anything on the news down here about a film
set getting blown up in Bondi?'
'Yes,' answered Roxy. 'I saw something on TV. And there was a
photo in the paper.' She gave Les a double blink. 'Wait a minute.
Norton. That wasn't you, was it?'
Les nodded. 'It sure was.'
Les gave her pretty much the whole story. Where he lived. Where
he worked and what he did. What happened on Tuesday. How he was
trying to clear his name. And how he finished up in Victor Harbor
looking for a boat called the Trough Queen and the crew. He didn't
say he killed the bloke's dog. But he did tell her how he broke into the
house at Medlow Bath.
'So that's it, Roxy,' shrugged Les. 'It was a waste of time coming
down here. But I was desperate. Now I'll get bundled off to the nick
on Monday. Probably when I get home tonight. It's not much to look
forward to.'
Roxy was both surprised and sympathetic. 'Golly. That's tough,'
she said. 'And it wasn't even your fault. That's awful.'
'Try telling that to the two cops who nicked me,' said Les.
Roxy shook her head. 'So what do you intend to do now?'
'What do I intend to do now?' Les looked at his watch. 'Well, I
intend driving you back to Victor Harbor, for starters.'
'Oh. Thanks very much.'
'Then you're going to have to go to the police. You've got to report
those nutters before they do the same thing to somebody else. And
you can bet you're not the only one they've abducted.'
'Yes. They've probably been watching me walking for a while,'
agreed Roxy.
'But we'll discuss that on the way to Victor Harbor. Anyway, I have
to go back to my room and get a couple of things. We've got plenty of
time. But I have to fill the tank and all that.'
'Okay,' said Roxy. 'Let's go. And thanks again for the lovely
breakfast.'
'My pleasure, Roxy,' replied Les. 'And I'd like to rephrase
something too.'
'Oh? What's that?'
'Well, when I said it was a waste of time me coming down here, it
wasn't. It was one of the best things I ever did.'
'Thank you, Les,' replied Roxy. 'In fact I don't even know how to
thank you.'
They walked round and caught the lift. On the way up Roxy
started giving Les some odd looks. Les couldn't quite pick up on the
vibe. But he had a feeling Roxy suspected he'd been doing a bit of
heavy tampering through the night. Les smiled at her and said
nothing. Back in his room, Les started sorting a few things out. Roxy
had to use the bathroom and Les offered her a T-shirt to put on
under her dress if she wanted it. Les was staring out the window
when he felt Roxy come up behind him and slip her arms around
his waist.
'You know what, Les,' she said.
Les turned around. 'No, Roxy. What?'
'How did you sleep with me last night without... you know?'
Les looked at Roxy as if he had no idea what she was talking
about. 'I was tired. I crashed out. Besides, what sort of a cad do you
take me for Roxy?'
'You're a decent sort of man, aren't you, Les,' said Roxy.
'Ohh, I don't know,' said Les. 'Maybe if I'd taken my Viagra things
might have been different.'
'Are you tired now?'
'No. I had a terrific night's sleep,' replied Les. 'Why?'
Roxy went a little coy again. 'Well, I was thinking. You going to
gaol. And me living down here and all that. We might not get the
chance to see each other again.'
'Yeah,' agreed Les. 'It's a bit of a bummer.'
'Well. And don't get me wrong about this, Les, because I don't do
it very often. But seeing as I owe you my life, why don't we make love
before you drive me home? I owe you one.'
'You don't owe me anything, Roxy,' smiled Les. 'I just did what any
half decent, red-blooded Australian man would have done. That's all.'
'All right,' conceded Roxy. 'I don't owe you anything. But shit!
I don't know. For some reason I'm as horny as buggery this morning.'
'You sure it wasn't the Bircher Muesli, Roxy? It's full of vitamins,
you know.'
Roxy shook her head. 'No, Les. It wasn't the Bircher Muesli.'
'Well, in that case.'
Les put his arms around Roxy's waist, bent his head a little and
kissed her. That's what was missing last night. The kissing. And
Roxy's lips were soft, warm and horribly inviting. And when she
slipped her delicate little tongue in, Les felt like putting his foot
straight through the hotel window. He ran his hands up Roxy's ribs
and lifted her dress up over her head. Roxy stood at the end of the
bed with Norton's speedos tied round her waist and her huge boobs
sticking out.
'Jesus Christ, Roxy,' said Les. 'You've sure got one hell of a good
body.'
'Don't say things like that, Mr Norton,' replied Roxy. 'You'll only
make me hold it against you.'
Les got out of his tracksuit, slid the Speedos off Roxy and eased
her back onto the bed. He spread her legs then pushed his face in and
gave Roxy's blonde ted a monster eat. Roxy oohed and ahhed and
wriggled on the bed while she jammed Norton's head into her. Les
came up for air and Roxy reached under and gave his knob a polish
that sent Norton somewhere into the fifth dimension. Just when Les
thought he was going to stay permanently cross-eyed she stopped
and he got between her legs. Roxy gave a howl of joy as Les slipped
Mr Wobbly in and started going for his life. They made love on the
bed from all angles. Les got Roxy's ankles behind her head, sat a
pillow under her behind. She got on top. They had a doggy. A sixtyniner.
It seemed to last forever till Les finally pulled the plug and
emptied out, with much moaning and groaning from him, and
plenty of wailing and flailing from Roxy. On a scale of one to ten, Les
gave it a nine point nine. He reluctantly deducted a percentage of a
point because she had been wearing his old Speedos. In a pair of
knickers, Roxy would have romped in a ten.
They got cleaned up a little, pulled the sheets back over them and
lay on the bed getting their breath back. Les had one arm around
Roxy. Roxy had her head on Norton's chest.
'Well, I have to say one thing Mr Norton,' said Roxy, running a
finger around Norton's chest.
'Yes. What's that, Ms Boswell,' answered Les.
'You certainly don't need Viagra.'
'Oh? What makes you say that?'
'You're there for the long haul, aren't you? You don't just squeeze
the trigger and empty the magazine in one burst.'
'Yes, Roxy,' admitted Les modestly. 'I am a bad mamma jamma, a
couple of metres out from the fence and the track's good.'
'Between that and the Bircher Muesli,' replied Roxy.
Yeah. And having a couple earlier in the piece slows things down a
bit. 'Bad luck I've got to get you home, Roxy,' kidded Les. 'Or I'd be
very tempted to pounce on you again.'
'Sounds good to me,' smiled Roxy. 'But how about when we get
back to my place?'
'Whatever you say,' Les gave Roxy a cuddle and a big sloppy kiss
on the forehead and they got dressed.
Les gave Roxy his address and phone number. He probably
wouldn't be there, but she'd get his friend Warren and he'd tell her
what was going on. Roxy gave Les her home details and said she'd be
in touch and for Les to at least write to her. Les promised he would.
They finished dressing. Roxy put Norton's Lee Kernaghan T-shirt on.
Bad luck his shoes didn't fit. But it would be warm once they got
in the car. He tossed a couple of bottles of mineral water in his
backpack and they caught the lift downstairs. It was a different
concierge from the night before, but he knew who Les was.
'Good morning, Mr Ullrich,' he said brightly.
'G'day mate. How's things,' replied Les.
'Good morning, ma'am.'
The concierge opened the door for Roxy, getting a good look
through the gown at her boobs and black Speedos, as he closed the
door.
'I got to get some petrol,' said Les, as they turned right at the front
of the hotel. 'Do you want anything while I'm there?'
'No. I'm all right thanks, Mr Ullrich,' replied Roxy.
'Roxy. Please,' said Les. 'After what went on upstairs. Call me
Conrad.'
Roxy gave Les a clip under the ear. 'Keep that sort of talk up and
they'll be calling you an ambulance.'
'Hey Roxy. What do you call a woman with no clitoris?'
'I don't know. What?'
'Call her what you like. But she won't come.'
'Right. That's it.'
Les stopped at the first garage he came to, filled up and they
proceeded on their way to Victor Harbor. He didn't put the Avis
Navigator on. But he pointed it out to Roxy and told her again that
was what saved her life. Roxy went a little quiet so Les thought this
was the time to get serious.
'Okay Roxy,' he said. 'I've told you all about me. And this is what
I'd like you to do.'
'Sure Les. What?' answered Roxy.
Les suggested she didn't go to the police till around six. Say she
was still in shock. This would give him time to be on the plane back
to Sydney. But tell the police the truth and give them all his details,
then they'd extradite him back to Adelaide to give evidence. In the
meantime, tell the cops to check round the local panel beaters and
find out who was getting new windscreens put in their cars and if
there were any signs of shotgun pellets. Also check the hospitals for
an old lady with a busted mouth, an old man with a lacerated face
and some tall bloke with dark hair who could have a broken jaw. Les
wasn't sure where the farm was. It was pitch black. But it was a
turn-off to the right coming back from Victor Harbor. There
wouldn't be too many abandoned farmhouses out there. A helicopter
would find it in five minutes. And tell the cops to make copies of any
tyre prints in the mud and match them up with the cars getting
new windscreens. The coven had to be stopped before they killed
someone else. They might even come back looking for her. This sent
a chill up Roxy's spine. But on the plus side, if they got rounded up
and the police found out who they'd murdered in the past, there
would probably be a reward. Which she could claim. Roxy agreed this
all made sense and she'd do what Les asked.
The trip back to Victor Harbor seemed to take no time at all with
Roxy in the car and Les found himself getting quite attached to the
May Queen. He was going to be very sorry when it was time to say
goodbye. He sensed Roxy was feeling much the same way, too. She
started to go quiet just before they reached the turn-off to Goolwa.
'You okay, Roxy?' asked Les. 'You're very quiet there.'
'Yes. I was just thinking of something,' deliberated Roxy. She
turned to Les. 'You know how you were saying you came to Victor
Harbor looking for a boat, but it turned out there was no Harbor?'
'Do I what,' replied Les.
'Well there used to be a boat in Victor Harbor. But it wasn't in
the water.'
'Wasn't in the water?' Les stared at Roxy. 'What do you mean?'
'It used to be in a park. I'll show you.'
Wondering what Roxy was on about, Les followed the road into
Victor Harbor. The long wide bay curved round in front of the car and
in the distance Les could see the island with the jetty running out to it.
They went past the houses and shops then, before they reached the
shopping centre, Roxy told Les to turn left. They crossed a railway line
and she told him to pull up next to a big green park with a long row of
tall pine trees alongside the footpath. Les turned off the engine and
had a quick look around. A row of two-storey holiday homes stood
across from the park and on the corner was a red-brick and sandstone
restaurant with a lattice work balcony around the top floor. An old
cannon sat in the park, facing out to sea, and near where the park met
the ocean was a row of young pine trees protected with hessian.
'It used to be over there,' said Roxy, pointing out her window.
'Come on. I'll show you what I mean.'
Les got out of the car and followed Roxy across the park to the
rocks at the water's edge. The wind had eased and the sea was calm
and grey under a leaden sky. The thin strip of beach was covered with
seaweed up to the rocks. Roxy looked at the rocks for a moment then
walked back into the park a little and turned to Les.
'It used to be here,' she said, pointing to her feet.
'What used to be here?' said Les. 'I'm not sure I follow you.'
'An old wooden boat,' said Roxy. 'It had something to do with the
bad old days of whaling. People were always getting their photos
taken next to it.'
'Photos,' said Les.
'Yes. The tourists. And there used to be a wooden sign saying
Victor Harbor.'
'A sign?'
'Yes. Next to the old boat. But some vandals set fire to the boat one
night. They burnt the sign too. The council never replaced it.'
Les stared at Roxy for a moment. 'Roxy. Just wait here for a second, will you?'
Les jogged back to the car and got his backpack with everything still in it from the night before. He jogged back, pulled out the photo
he stole in Medlow Bath and showed it to Roxy.
'Is this the boat?' Les asked her.
'Yes. That's it,' replied Roxy. 'It wasn't called the Trough Queen, though. It never had a name.' She looked up at Les. 'Are the men in
the photo friends of yours?'
Les shook his head dumbly. 'No, Roxy. They're not friends of
mine. The one on the left is the bloke that got blown up on the movie
set. Albert Knox.'
'Oh.'
Les stared at the photo then lined it up with the ocean. From the
way it was taken and if you didn't know better, you'd think the old
boat was sitting in the water. The name Trough Queen on the bow
also started to take on a different perspective, and you could bet if
you examined the photo under a magnifying glass or a loupe, you'd
see it was held on with tacks or something.
'How long ago did they set the boat on fire?' he asked.
Roxy shrugged. 'About five years. Something like that.'
'Five years. Thanks, Roxy.' Les stared at the photo, had a look
round the park and felt like his arse had just caved in.
'Are you all right, Les?' asked Roxy.
Les looked at her for a moment and an ironic half smile crept over
his face. 'Am I all right? Yeah, Roxy, I'm all right. For a complete
Dubbo I'm real good.' He put the photo back in his bag and took out
his camera. 'Anyway, let me get a photo of you with the ocean in the
background.'
'Okay,' smiled Roxy. 'And I'll take one of you.'
They clicked off the photos then Les placed the camera back in his
bag. 'Come on, Roxy,' he said, putting his arm around her. 'I'll get you
home. It's too cold to be standing round here in your bare feet.'
Roxy lived back towards where they drove in. She told Les to take a
left next to a park and a garage, then he followed a hill up past
a wedding reception building that looked like an old medieval castle.
Roxy's street was on the right a bit further along. The house was
a single-storey brick house with a garage underneath and a verandah
with a skinny iron railing round the front. There were trees on either
side and a well-kept garden out the front. Parked in the driveway
were two Ford Lasers, a blue one and a white one. Les surmised these
would both be from her uncle's dealership. Les pulled up in the
driveway behind the white one.
'So this is your place, Roxy,' he said, switching off the engine.
'Yes. It looks like Mum's home,' she replied. 'Would you like to
come inside and meet her? I don't like your chances of getting my
Speedos off again, though.'
'No. I think I'd better make a move,' replied Les. 'By the time I get
back and all that.'
'Okay,' replied Roxy softly.
There was a silence between them for a few moments as they
looked at each other. Les tried to smile, but all it did was make Roxy's
eyes well up and a tear rolled down her cheek.
'Hey, Roxy,' soothed Les. 'What's all this, mate?'

'I don't know,' answered Roxy.
'Well, don't start. Because I feel pretty ordinary as it is.'
'Oh Les.' Roxy buried her head in Norton's chest and put her arms
around his neck. 'It's not fair.'
Les held Roxy and stroked her hair. "What's not fair?'
'Everything. You going to gaol. Me down here. And I'll never see
you again.'
'Hey. You'll see me again. Even if I have to tunnel my way out. I'll
smuggle a spoon in with me. Or a hacksaw blade.' Les was putting on
a brave face, but inside he felt as empty as an old mailbag. In a very
short space of time the May Queen had managed to bore her way
right into the big Queenslander's heart.
'Yeah. You'll see me,' said Roxy. 'How?'
Les got his hanky out and wiped away her tears. 'You never know
what might happen, Roxy. Your guardian angel could fly up to
Sydney and keep an eye on me for a while.'
'Les, promise me you'll keep in touch,' said Roxy. 'You saved my
life. Besides, I like you. A lot.'
'I know. And I like you too, Roxy. A lot. And I will keep in touch.'
'You promise?'
'I give you my word. Hey, I got to come down and give evidence
when the police round up those ratbags. I'll probably see you then.'
'Yeah. From across a courtroom.'
Les put a finger under Roxy's chin, lifted her face up and kissed
her. The kiss was long and hard and he could taste the salty warmth
of Roxy's tears as they trickled down her face onto his lips. After a
while Les had to finish.
'Roxy, I have to go,' he told her.
'All right,' sniffed Roxy. She placed her hand softly on Norton's
cheek. 'I'll never forget you, Les.'
'And I won't forget you either, Roxy.' Les kissed her again.
'Goodbye Roxy.'
'Goodbye, Les.' Roxy got out of the car and looked at Les for the
last time. 'It's still not fair.' She closed the door and ran up the
driveway. Les watched her disappear into the house, then started
the car and drove off.
Norton's jaw ached and his mind was full of sadness as he went past
the Goolwa turn-off. He got a bottle of mineral water from his
backpack and swallowed almost half of it. Yeah, you're not wrong, Roxy,
mused Les. It's more than not fair. It's completely fuckin shithouse, if
you ask me. Les swallowed some more mineral water and stared at the
road ahead. Just when I meet a girl I truly like and I might be able to
share some good times with, I get the rug pulled straight out from
under me. She wasn't only a good sort, she had something going for her.
She's trying to be a writer. Well, I hope she cracks it and makes a bundle.
She deserves it after what she's just been through. Les swallowed some
more mineral water. Christ! I'd have loved to have shouted her a trip to
Sydney. Then taken her away somewhere, like a top resort and just given
us both a spoil. But, I guess it just ain't to be. The only holiday I'll be
getting is a long one care of the government. Les drained the bottle and
dropped it on the floor of the car. Still, I've had a bloody good run. I
guess my karma had to catch up with me sooner or later.
Les put his foot down, put Roxy out of his mind and brooded on
something else. Shit! All that fuckin trouble for nothing. There was
'The Hyundai Grandeur went well too.'
'They're a very nice car, sir.'
They drove to the airport in silence. Les played it cool and aloof.
Softly, he drummed his fingers on the attache case. I wonder what the
fuck this is all about? Probably Ullrich's strategy for a corporate
takeover. Some insider trading? I'll make sure Gerry gets it. Could be
something to her advantage. Maybe mine too. Yeah. Fat lot of good
it'll do me. The houses and shops went by and in what seemed like
no time Vincent pulled up outside the Ansett terminal. He opened
Norton's door then carried his bag into the terminal.
'Goodbye, Mr Ullrich,' said Vincent. 'Have a pleasant trip back to
Sydney.'
'Yes. Thank you, Vincent,' replied Les. 'I'm sure I will.'
Vincent drove off. Les walked over to a row of seats across from
the check-in counter and sat down. He placed his overnight bag and
backpack at his feet and rested the shiny black leather attache case on
his knee. It had gold-plated locks and looked expensive. Stamped in
gold near the handle it said condotti. Les slit the envelope with his
finger, took the key out then opened the letter.
Dear C.
As you can understand I must be brief. Sorry for the way things
turned out. As feared I have had to leave two days earlier than
planned. Best we don't make contact for at least a year. Longer
would be even better. As agreed, I have looked after J. Be cautious
of N. I believe he is untrustworthy.
Take care.
K.
Well there you go, thought Les. J's cool. N's a dropkick. Now let's
see what we've got here. Les clicked the key in the two locks and
opened the attache case. On top was a layer of white paper. Les peeled
it back and underneath were rows and rows of hundred-dollar bills,
all tied with rubber bands in neat stacks of ten. Les counted one
hundred and fifty. He took out one bundle of notes and tucked it in
his jacket pocket, then put the letter in the case, locked it and packed
the case in the bottom of his overnight bag. There were a number of
people waiting to check in. Mr Ullrich went through as smooth as
butter and was told he was leaving from gate ten. Les thanked the
girl, skirted round the other punters and took the escalator to Golden
Wing. He flashed his card, got a smile and joined the other people
inside. Five minutes later Les had a nice table facing the tarmac and
was sitting down sipping tea and munching cheese and crackers
while he waited for the fruit bats flapping around in his stomach to
settle down before they kicked his ribs out.
Holy mother of God, whooped Les. A hundred and fifty fuckin
grand. And it's all bloody mine. Ullrich's dead. And the other bloke
-- K -- has hit the toe somewhere. Don't contact him for a couple of
years. I'm bloody sure I won't. I haven't got a clue what it's all about.
But thank you very much K and C and the Sunshine fuckin Band. Or
whoever. Les stared out at the darkened tarmac in amazement. I can't
believe my luck. Then a thought hit him and he silently laughed that
ironic laugh again. Yeah. Luck. What am I going to do with it? Les
turned his eyes to the night sky. You sure giveth, but you sure taketh
away, don't you, boss. But thanks anyway. One thing it will get me is
a truckload of good lawyers and barristers. I might even be able to get
to the judge. Les tapped the thousand in his pocket. So I've got back
the fifty I lost on the movie. Plus another hundred for good luck. Not
bad for a quick trip to South Aussie. Christ! If only I didn't have that
other shit hanging over my head, life'd be gravy. Les was sipping his
tea when he felt some one sit down on the lounge next to him.
'Hello Les me old. What's happening?'
Les turned slowly to his left. It was a dark-haired man with a
trimmed beard and a dark complexion, losing his hair. He was wearing
jeans, a denim shirt, a black leather jacket and black Wallabees.
'Pieman,' said Les. 'What are you doing in Adelaide? Or need I ask?'
'I suppose I could ask you the same thing, Les,' replied Pieman.
'Yes, I suppose you could, Pie.'
Pieman, or Pie, was Spiro Pythagoras. A Bondi boy from a Greek
family. Pie rode a surfboard and lived up the north coast with his
wife and kids where he had a fishing boat and used to supplement his
fishing income with a little bit of pot dealing here and there. He was a
good mate of the Gull's and all the team that hung out the front of
the Toriyoshi, and despite his occasional dabbling in prohibited
substances, Pie was a good bloke with a good sense of humour.
However, he was also keen on a dollar, and all you had to remember
when dealing with the Pieman was caveat emptor.
'That wasn't a bad photo of you in the paper the other day, Les,'
said Pie.
'Thanks. I hope you cut it out and hung it up in your boat,'
replied Les.
'I did, to tell you the truth.'
'Good. Anyway,' gestured Les, 'feel free to join me Pie. I'm on the
run from the law. All I need is to be seen hanging around with a
notorious drug dealer.'
'Fair enough,' chuckled Pie. 'So what are you doing in Adelaide?
You're a long way from Bondi.'
'To be honest, Pie, I came down here looking for some blokes I
thought might be able to help me with all that Elliott I'm in back
home. But I fell on my arse. Now I'm on my way back to stick my
head in the noose.'
'Bad luck mate.'
'Yeah,' Les sipped the last of his tea. 'So what about you, Pie?
What's your John Dory? Surely you're not moving dacca down here.
It's semi legal. They give the stuff away with green stamps.'
'I know. The bastards,' answered Pie. 'No. I need some cash in a
hurry. So I came down to do a little business. Now I'm on my way
back to a Sleaze Ball in Zetland with a thousand caps of Ebeneezer.'
'A Sleaze Ball and a head full of eccy,' said Les. 'You'll excuse me if I
don't come along and join in the festivities.'
'Oh, I don't know, Les,' said Pie. 'Someone told me you were very
partial to a Sleaze Ball. I even heard you were the Trough Queen.'
Les turned slowly to the Pieman. 'You heard I was the -- what?'
'The Trough Queen. The Trough Monster. The word's out it's you,
Les.'
Les stared at the Pieman. 'Tell me more about this -- Trough
Queen, Pie. Who is he?'
'No one knows, Les. It could be a she. I reckon it's you. But whoever
it is, it's been a legend in the urinals at Sleaze Balls the last few years.'
'Why? What's this Trough Queen do?'
'The only way to find out, Les,' smiled Pie, 'is to go to a Sleaze Ball
and hang out in the brasco. And take a torch with you.'
Norton's demeanour was calm, but his mind had kicked into
overdrive. 'Say I wished to purchase a ticket to this Sleaze Ball in Zetland Pieman. How would I obtain one?'
'You wouldn't,' replied Pie. 'It's a Sunday night special, it's been
sold out for months. I happen to have one because of my ... business
activities.'
'You want to sell it to me?' asked Les. 'You won't need it if you're
just dropping off a bundle of disco biscuits.'
'True,' answered Pie. 'But tickets are as rare as rocking horse shit.
Any donut puncher worth his sequins would kill to get one. If I
was to sell you mine,' Pieman patted the inside pocket of his leather
jacket, 'I'd have to charge you the full black market price.'
'How much is that?'
'Five hundred dollars.'
'You got me.' Les pulled out the thousand, whipped off five
hundred dollars and handed it to the Pieman. 'Come on. Give me
the ticket.'
'Jesus! You are keen, Les.'
Pie pocketed the money and handed Les his ticket. It was black in
a black envelope. Embossed in silver on the front was a likeness of
Oscar Wilde and the words Take A Walk On The Wilde Side.
Les turned it over in his hand. 'How do I know this isn't a
forgery, Pieman?'
Pieman pointed to the likeness of Oscar Wilde. 'There's a magnetic
strip at one end. They'll run it through a scanner to make sure.
Believe me, Les, that's one hundred per cent kosher.'
'For five hundred fuckin bucks it'd want to come straight from
Tel Aviv.'
Pie rested his hand on Norton's knee. 'And don't worry, Les. Your
secret is safe with me.'
'Thanks, Pie,' said Les. 'Now fuck off while you're still in front.'
Pie gave Norton a wink. 'It's been a business doing pleasure with
you Les.'
The Pieman got up and vanished amongst the other passengers as
quietly as he arrived. Les put the ticket in his backpack, took out the
photo he stole from Knox's house at Medlow Bath and started
thinking. He put the photo away, got another cup of tea and was still
thinking when it was time to board the aircraft.
Mr Ullrich got another nice smile as he was shown to his seat. Les
buckled in and stared straight ahead. He was still staring straight
ahead when the plane took off. A few minutes into the flight Les
ordered a can of VB. Another two cans of VB later and Les was still
staring straight ahead and thinking. He was thinking that much he
even knocked back the evening meal. By the end of VB number three,
Les was starting to think maybe he hadn't been barking up the wrong
tree after all. Just barking at the wrong boat. And the nucleus of a
plan had formed in Norton's mind.
It wasn't much of a plan and it was pretty risky. The risky part
involved sneaking back to Chez Norton and getting his car. Followed
by some very risky skulduggery at this Sleaze Ball. And even if he did
pull the plan off, the end result would be no more than a bone to
throw the two cops who pinched him. Then he was going to have to
spend Sunday night in gaol. But this was his last roll of the dice. He'd
pretty much stuffed things up in the Blue Mountains and South
Australia. What else could go wrong? And once again, what was the
alternative? Thirty long years in the puzzle. Les stared out the
window at the stars etched into the inky blackness of the night sky
and the clouds below tinged with silver in the moonlight. He was
going to give it a go. That money falling in and bumping into the
Pieman in Adelaide had to be an omen. Maybe Roxy's guardian angel
had flown in? Before Les knew it the lights of Sydney were spread
out below the plane and they began making their descent. The pilot
circled the plane then they bumped down at Kingsford Smith
Airport.
'Goodbye, Mr Ullrich,' smiled the young lady flight attendant, as
they filed off.
'Thank you,' replied Les, and strode down the corridor.
He took a left straight onto the moving walkway as a uniform cop
went by. His adrenalin now on the rise, Les looked straight ahead and
kept moving till he got to the baggage carousel. There was the usual
wait then his overnight bag came round with the other luggage; Les
picked it up, feeling for the edges of the briefcase on the bottom.
With his overnight bag in one hand and his backpack in the other,
Les walked out to the taxi rank. There were about ten taxis and
twenty punters. Les ducked and dived and pushed and shoved a
little rudely before jumping in the back seat of the first cab he
found empty.
'Bondi Beach, driver. Cox Avenue.'
The taxi took off and the driver smiled in the rear-vision mirror.
'Hello big Les. What's doing, mate?'
Les stared back at the rear-vision mirror. 'Bananas. I didn't know
you drove a cab.'
'I don't normally. But I'm doing a bloke a favour. And I need the
cashhhhh.'
'Christ! I think the last time I saw you was at the game,' said Les.
Nobody knew Bananas' last name. His first name was Louie. And
everybody knew him as Lou Bananas. He was a dumpy faced, dumpy
built, balding bloke with Italian parents who came from Coogee
and ran bars. He once worked at the Kelly Club for a while. Lou was a
likeable bloke with a dry sense of humour and an abbreviated way
of talking. His main claim to fame was four daughters he called
Bananarama and his love for a punt and a dollar.
'So where have you been hiding, 'Nanas?' said Les.
'I've been managing a pub in Taree,' replied Lou.
'What was that like?'
'They all got two heads and question marks on their foreheads. I
stuck it out till I got back to civilizaish. Evench.'
'Fair enough, 'nanas,' said Les.
'So how have you been, Les?' asked Bananas, as they stopped in the
traffic coming out of the airport. 'Nice photo of you in the paper
early in the week. If your melon hadn't been covered up, I would have
thought it was Brad Pitt.'
'Thanks, Bananas,' said Les. 'You know I didn't do it, don't you?'
'Oh, of course, Les. Bombs aren't your go. You just pulverise
people with those big fists of yours.'
'Exactly, Lou. I hate violence.'
They headed for Mascot and Les started thinking again. It had to
be an omen. First the money. Then the Pieman. Now Bananas. This
could be just what he was looking for. It meant not having to go back
to Bondi and get his car.
'So you're chasing a dollar, Lou?' said Les.
'Get four daughters, Les, and see if you don't chase a dollar.'
'How would you like to earn five hundred bucks for about an
hour's work, Bananas? Cash.'
The sudden glow in Bananas' eyes shone back at Les from the
rear-vision mirror like twin laser beams. 'Did you say? Cashhhhh?'
'Of course.'
'What do I have to do, big Les? Nothing too ridic?'
'No. Instead of going to Bondi, Take me to a Sleaze Ball in Zetland.
Do you know where it is?'
'Yeah,' replied Bananas. 'Lachlan Street. I've been dropping freaks
there all night. It's roaring.'
'That'll be the one,' said Les.
'I didn't know Sleaze Balls were your go Les. How long ... ?'
'Get stuffed, Bananas. All you got to do is wait out the front. I'll be
thirty minutes at the most. Here,' Les gave Bananas the other five
hundred dollars he had in his jacket.
The sparkle in Bananas' eyes was like a pair of headlights on high
beam. 'Sensaish. Thanks, Les.'
'That's all right,' Les picked at his chin for a second. 'On the way,
stop at one of those dollar bargain joints. I want to buy something.'
'There's one in Kingsford, should still be open,' said Bananas.
'Okay. And have you got a mobile phone?'
'In the glove box.'
'Good. I might want to use it later,' said Les.
'No worries.'
'After I'm finished at the Sleaze Ball, Bananas, we'll probably be
going to Waverley Police Station.'
'The wallopers, Les?'
'Yeah. I won't be coming back out. So I want you to take my
overnight bag up to the Kelly Club and give it to Billy Dunne. Make
sure he gets it. And tell him where I am. Billy'll know what to do.'
'Righto,' said Bananas. 'Shit! This is all very Mission Imposs, Les.
Any chance of an explanaish?'
'Evench, Bananas,' said Les. 'Evench. Now take me shopping.'
Les stared out the window, still not quite sure what he was doing.
Whatever it was, he couldn't finish up in much more hot water
than he was already in. From now on, thought Les, I'm just burning
my bridges as I come to them. Les was still thinking along those
lines when Bananas pulled up on a bus stop in Kingsford outside an
el-cheapo store between a Chinese restaurant and a newsagent.
Lou waited in the taxi while Les ran inside. Five minutes later he
was back with a plastic raincoat, a scarf, a cheap pair of women's
sunglasses, rubber gloves and a Bic lighter. Plus a toy sword made of
grey plastic, about the same size as a carving knife. He put the
raincoat and sunglasses on then tied the scarf over his head and got
back in the taxi.
Bananas couldn't believe his eyes. 'What in the fuck are you doing,
Les?'

'Nothing,' replied Norton. 'Why?'
'You know who you look like holding that knife. Don't you?
'No, Bananas,' said Les. 'Who?'
'That old sheila in Psycho. The one who did all the murders.'
'Norman Bates's mother.'
'Yeah,' nodded Bananas. 'That's her. You're a dead ringer with the raincoat and the scarf over your head.'
Les checked himself out in the rear-vision mirror. 'Well, it is a drag scene I'm going to, Bananas.'
Bananas shook his head. 'You're kiddin,' aren't you? Fair dinkum.'
Bananas cut through Kensington, swung into Dacey Avenue and got a green light near the hotel at Lachlan and South Dowling. He
followed Lachlan about half way along then pulled up on the footpath.
'There it is, Les,' said Bananas.
'I know this joint,' said Les. 'It's the old Jaeger Smallgoods Factory. I used to deliver meat here when I worked for Fields.'
'Yeah? Well the only meat you'll get in there now, Les, is straight up the blurter.'
The old factory was a long two-storey brick building with a small metal door at this end and a shuttered loading dock at the other. A wall of glass bricks dotted with air conditioners faced the street and along the footpath out the front was a row of black; metal posts embedded into the footpath. At the far end of the street was a park and at this end was a spare parts wholesale Opposite was a massive block of land that had been levelled
build a housing commission complex. There were no signs on
old building to say what was going on. The only sign of life was
half-a-dozen security staff standing out the front in dark blue
trousers and matching windcheaters.
'Okay, Bananas,' said Les. 'Wait here for me. I shouldn't be long.'
'Hey, Les,' replied Bananas. 'Take your time. Enjoy. You might meet
the man of your dreams inside.'
'Keep smiling, Bananas,' said Les. 'You're going to look pretty
funny kissing your daughters goodnight with your mouth full of
stitches.'
Les got out of the car and walked across to the front door.
Although he looked like a nutter, the security staff scarcely gave Les a
second look. To them he was just another freak. There was a table
near the door with an electronic scanner on it. A burly security man
swiped Norton's ticket then another opened the metal door. Les
stepped into a small corridor where a third security man opened
another door. Les stepped through and it closed behind him.
Inside was complete pandemonium. At least two thousand people
were either milling around or dancing at the speed of light beneath
several rotating mirror balls and a bank of Bose speakers pumping
out techno house music loud enough to shake the fillings out of your
teeth. Lights flickered everywhere and coloured laser beams arrowed
through the smoky atmosphere, making crisscross patterns on a
towering row of scaffolding hung with balloons and streamers. Les moved away from a set of speakers and got his bearings while he
checked out the punters. It was big on micro leather shorts with studs and leather caps and white satin shorts with gold and silver stars on
each cheek and G-strings wedged up your backside. There were
outrageous drag queens big enough to play front row for the
Broncos. Shirley Temples, Xenas, Barbara Cartlands, Tina Turners,
Marilyn Monroes, Marj Simpsons, complete with towering blue
beehives. Groups of Village People were there, along with Boy
Georges, boy scouts, girl guides, nurses, nuns, archbishops, rabbis,
fairies, pixies. Platoons of elegant Oscar Wildes in velvet and silk
mingled with legions of bull-necked lesbians in overalls, spike collars
and Brando jackets, ugly enough to scare a herd of warthogs away
from a waterhole. Whatever outfit you could think up with the
backside cut away and a freshly waxed bum sticking out of it was in
there getting down and getting dirty. There was even an Adolph
Hitler, an Idi Amin and a Joe Stalin, with their freshly waxed behinds
sticking out of their uniforms. And that was only near where Les
walked in. Who knew what else you'd find? But there was only one
Mrs Norman Bates.
Now if I remember right, thought Les, the shithouse was in that
corner down there to the right. In the distance Les could make out a
green sign saying EXIT. He started weaving his way through the
punters, getting a great giggle when he'd stab the plastic knife
around. Les was correct. There was a short corridor to the right and a
sign said toilets. Les got the rubber gloves from his pocket and
slipped them on. The Norman Bates's mother outfit was a hoot, but
it also gave Les head to toe protection from the various creepy
crawlies he expected to find in a Sleaze Ball toilet. The open door was
just a little further down on the left. Very gingerly, Les stepped inside.
Every light bulb had been broken and it was almost pitch black.
The only light was a few faint beams snaking in through a row of
dusty windows high above a wall at the far end. Les could make out a
row of cubicles on the right and a line of stainless steel urinals on the
left. All through the middle was a congestion of seething, jostling
silhouettes, sucking, fucking, licking and groping or otherwise
happily engaged in all manner of sexual acts. All the lewd activity was
accompanied by a chorus of squealing and moaning that hung in the
dark along with the almost overpowering smell of body oil and
perspiration. Good Lord, thought Les, bumping past a pair of leather
clad silhouettes with their hands in each other's shorts and their
tongues down each other's throats. How off's this? Les squinted into
a cubicle where a silhouette with its shorts down was spreadeagled
against the cistern, with another silhouette behind, choc-o-bloc up it
and putting in the big ones.
It was all too much for Norton, and besides that, it was too dark.
Fuck it! He cursed to himself. Looks like I've blown it again, I don't
even know what I'm looking for, and even if I did, you wouldn't find
it in here. No. They can stick this up their arse. They are anyway.
Unexpectedly, Les suddenly found himself busting for a leak. Shit.
What a time to want to have a piss. Oh well. Les weaved past several
darkened figures doing whatever they were doing and stepped up
onto the urinal. In the darkness he bumped into someone at his feet.
'Sorry mate,' said Les, unzipping his fly.
'Piss on me,' said a muted voice from near Norton's feet.
Les looked down but couldn't see anything. 'What?'
'Piss on me,' the tinny voice repeated.
Les pulled out the bic lighter and flicked it on. Sitting in the
urinal, with its feet out in front of it and its arms by its side was a
ghastly figure, clad in a full-length black leather bodysuit, complete with rubber booties and gloves. Clamped tightly on its head was a. hideous black leather face helmet with yellow stripes on the front and a zipper down the back. The mouth was a small mesh grill and the eyes were a pair of dark blue swimming goggles. It was a macabre sight and reminded Les of the repulsive creature they kept locked in
the cellar in the film Pulp Fiction -- The Gimp.
'Piss on me,' the figure in the urinal pleaded again.
'Sure mate. My pleasure,' replied Les, whipping out his old boy. 'Here. Have one on you.'
After three cans of VB on the plane, Les was only too willing to
oblige. He pissed all over the figure in the urinal from head to toe,
giving whoever it was a real good hosing in its face while he tried to
get as much as he could in its mouth. The Gimp revelled in it. Rolling
its head from side to side, rubbing its hands across its face and chest
and delicately flicking warm, frothy urine from its fingertips. Les gave
the figure a final burst in the eyes then shook the last few drops out in its face and tucked his old boy back inside his pants.
'There you go mate. How was that?' asked Les. 'Enjoy yourself?'
'Fantastic,' murmured the figure in the urinal. 'Please come
back again.'
'I will,' promised Les. 'In the meantime, try this.'
Les stepped back and kicked the Gimp in the solar plexus. The figure gasped a tiny, shrill scream then clutched at its chest unable to move. Les grabbed the figure under one arm and lifted it up from
urinal then pushed it out of the darkened toilet and started steering through the crowd. Under the strobe lights and darting
nobody took a great deal of notice. Any freaks who did, thought it
was just part of the night. Mrs Norman Bates holding the Gimp and
slashing at everybody with a toy sword. Les reached the first door
where two security staff were standing with their arms folded.
'What's the problem?' asked one.
'My friend's having an asthma attack,' shouted Les, camping it up.
'For heaven's sake open the door. I've got to get him into the fresh air.'
'Okay.'
One of the security guards opened the door. Les hustled the Gimp
along the corridor to the next door and banged on it. The door
opened and Les stepped outside still holding the paralysed figure in
the black leather bodysuit.
'What's happened?' asked one of the security guards standing out
the front.
'My friend's had an asthma attack,' said Les. 'I've got to take him to
a hospital.'
'Stay there. We'll call an ambulance.'
'It's all right,' said Les. 'I can see a taxi.' Before the security guard had
time to blink, Les hustled the figure across the footpath straight into
the back of Bananas' taxi. 'Righto, Bananas. Waverley Police Station.'
Bananas looked at Les, looked at the Gimp and took off. 'God
strike me. You've got some funny friends, Les. Who's that?'
'I don't know,' answered Les. 'But we'll find out soon enough. Give
me your mobile.'
'Here you are.' Bananas got the phone from the glove box and
handed it to Les. 'Phew! You're mate's not on the nose enough, Les.
Where did you find him? In a shithouse?'
'As a matter of fact, Bananas, I did.'
Bananas shook his head and drove towards Centennial Park.
'You're kiddin', aren't you, Les. Fair dinkum.'
Les got onto Telecom. Got the phone number for Waverley Police
Station and dialled.
'Hello. Waverley Police,' came a policewoman's voice.
'Yeah. My name's Les Norton. Would detectives Tait and Caccano
happen to be working tonight?'
'Yes. They are. But they're busy at the moment.'
'Okay. Well tell them Les Norton will be there soon. And I'm
turning myself in.'
There was a pause at the end of the line. 'What was your name
again sir?'
'Norton. Les Norton. You know? The bomb on the film set.'
'I don't quite follow you, Mr Norton,' came the policewoman's
voice. 'What's the problem again?'
'Just tell detectives Tait and Caccano. Les Norton rang. And I'm
coming in to give myself up,' said Les.
'Yes, all right, very good, Mr Norton. I'll see that they get the message.'
Bananas looked at Les in the rear-vision mirror. 'What was all
that about?'
'I'm giving myself up to the cops, Bananas,' replied Les, handing
Lou back the phone. 'And I'm taking the Gimp with me for company.'
'Fair enough.' Bananas kept looking at Norton in the rearview
mirror. 'You're dead set mad Les. You know that, don't you?'
'You're probably right, Bananas,' agreed Les. 'But being mad's the
only thing that stops me from going insane.'
They went past Centennial Park. Les got out of the plastic raincoat
and everything else and dropped them on the floor of the taxi.
Bananas came up through Charing Cross and pulled up almost out
the front of Waverley Police Station. The Gimp looked like it was
starting to breath normally again so Les gave it a short right under
the ribs to settle it down a bit.
'Okay, Bananas, you know what to do,' said Les, picking up his
backpack.
'No worries, Les.'
Les had some more cash in his pocket. 'And here's another couple
of hundred to help clean your cab.'
'Shit. Thanks, Les. Do you want me to wait around for a while,
then come inside and find out what's going on?'
Les thought for a moment. 'No. Don't bother. Just make sure you
get my bag up to the Kelly Club and give it to Billy.'
'No worries, Les.'
Norton shouldered his backpack and bundled the Gimp out of the
taxi. 'I'll see you when I see you, Bananas.'
'Good luck, Les.'
Well. Here goes nothing, thought Les. He grabbed the Gimp under
one arm and steered it across the footpath straight through the door
into Waverley Police Station.
For a Sunday night it was very quiet. There was a young couple
talking to a policewoman behind the counter on the right. Another
policewoman was on the phone behind her and a burly sergeant was
going through a file at a desk behind her. At the end of the counter
near the noticeboard in the corner, Les could see the two detectives in

sports coats and jeans. Caccano was on the phone and Tait had a notebook out, listening to what his partner was saying. Les walked I
past the stairs in front of the door, and bowled straight up to them his backpack in one hand and the Gimp in the other.
'Okay fellahs. It's all right,' exclaimed Les, dropping his backpack
near the counter. 'I'm here to give myself up. I'm unarmed so you
won't need your guns.'
Detective Tait turned around and looked at Les without seeming
to notice the Gimp. 'Hello, Les,' he said shortly. 'What do you want?'
"What do I want?' said Les. 'I want to hand myself in. That's what
I want.'
'Yeah, well, we're busy at the moment, Les. Can you wait till we're
finished on the phone?' Detective Tait turned back to his partner.
Les stared at the two detectives, totally admonished. What's up
with these two hillbillies? he asked himself. The last time I saw them
they wanted to shoot me on sight. Every cop in Australia's been
looking for me. Now no one wants to even talk to me. Les looked
around the police station. No one, including the young couple at the counter, seemed to notice he was there. But they certainly noticed the Gimp standing behind him. They were all wrinkling their noses and
staring at it like it had just landed from another planet. Eventually
Detective Caccano got off the phone. He discussed something with his partner then turned to Norton.
'What's your problem, Les?' he asked.
'What's my problem?' echoed Norton. 'I'm here to give myself up. And to prove my innocence at the same time.'
'Prove your innocence?' said Detective Caccano.
'That's right,' said Les. 'I can prove I didn't do it.'
'We know you didn't do it,' said Detective Tait.
'You what?' said Les.
'We know you didn't do it,' repeated Detective Tait.
Norton's voice rose. 'What do you mean? I didn't do it.'
'Well, if you want to be like that,' said Detective Caccano.
'No. That's not what I mean,' said Les. 'I mean. Shit! What the
fuck's going on?'
'Didn't your mate Eddie tell you?' said Detective Tait.
'Yeah. Where have you been?' asked Detective Caccano.
'I've been away. I mean ... Look, tell me what's going on, will you?'
'Eddie Salita came in and saw us on Thursday morning,' said
Detective Tait. 'And he brought in one of those crackers in a cake box,
Like you were telling us about.'
'He did?' said Les.
Detective Tait nodded. 'He showed us how it worked. And I have
to admit, we were very impressed.'
'And you got another mate. Ray Tracy,' said Detective Caccano.
'Runs a Japanese restaurant next to the school.'
'That's right,' said Les. 'The Gull. It was his movie I put my money
into.'
'Well, his partner is out here at the moment. A Mr Kobayashi,'
said Detective Caccano. 'He was in the school with his video
camera when the bomb went off. Ray brought him up when Eddie was here and they showed us the video. Compared to the school
security camera, there's a good two second's difference between the
explosions.'
'Two second's difference,' said Les.
'That's right,' nodded Detective Caccano. 'When you watch Mr
Kobayashi's video, you can clearly see the cake box blow up in Knox's
face. Then you see the second explosion come from the left and blow
Knox down the side of the catering van.'
'We've got other forensic evidence to back this. So your story
would stand up in court,' said Detective Tait. 'And even though you
weren't quite fair dinkum with us at the time because you were
covering for Eddie, we can see you were telling the truth. So we've
dropped the charges.'
'You've dropped the charges,' muttered Les.
'That's right, Les,' said Detective Caccano. 'You've walked.'
Norton could scarcely believe what he was hearing. All he had to
do when he came back from the Blue Mountains on Thursday was
pick up the phone. And that would have either been Eddie or the
Gull telling him he was in the clear. Instead he'd gone to all that
trouble flying to Adelaide and gone through all that anxiety for
nothing. On the other hand -- he was laughing. Not only was he off
scot-free, he had one hundred and forty-nine thousand dollars on its
way to the Kelly Club completely GST-free. And a good sort's phone
number in his wallet. Norton was totally out of the shit, back
stroking in gravy. It was a beautiful world after all.
'I don't know what to say,' said Les. 'I'm flabber and gasted.'
'Thanks, officer, would be nice,' said Detective Tait dryly.
'Yeah,' agreed Detective Caccano. 'We'll settle for a thank you.'
'Thanks,' said Les. 'I'll give you more than thanks.' Les turned and
pointed to the Gimp. 'I'll give you the bloody murderer.'
'Yeah. What the fuck is that thing?' asked Detective Caccano.
'Christ! It doesn't half stink,' sniffed Detective Tait.
'What is this thing?' said Les. 'This thing gentlemen. Is the Trough
Queen. Sometimes known as the Trough Monster.'
A sudden, inexplicable high hit Norton as if the heavens had just
opened up and the sun shone only for him. Maybe it was hanging
around with the poets in the Blue Mountains playing Agatha
Christie? Or just the exhilaration of not having to go to gaol. He
wasn't sure, but suddenly Les thought he was Hercule Poirot or some
great courtroom barrister and he started to soar.
'This foul fiend,' orated Norton. 'This devious denizen of the
night. This malodorous monster. Frequents the urinals at Sleaze
Balls. And other dens of iniquity. Where. It gets its perverted,
lascivious pleasures. By inducing persons using the toilet. To urinate
upon it.'
'It sure bloody smells like it,' agreed Detective Tait, waving a hand
in front of his nose. 'Christ!'
'And I. Les Norton, concerned citizen,' continued Les. 'Have just
made a citizen's arrest of this diabolical beast. Because it is my belief.
This. Is the perpetrator of the foul deed. Wherein an innocent cook.
One, Albert Knox. Was blown apart by a bomb.'
'Keep talking, Les,' said Detective Tait. 'I like it.'
And it is also my belief,' said Les, pointing indignantly at the
figure in the swimming goggles and black leather. 'That if you take
the same sniffer dog you brought to my house. Oscar. And search this insidious fiend's premises. You will find evidence of bomb
making.'
Detective Caccano sounded interested. 'Can you prove this, Les?'
'Can I prove this?' replied Norton.
No. He couldn't. Les was completely bluffing. It was just a gamble
he'd taken to try and get some of the heat off himself. All he had was
a photo of four blokes standing in front of an old boat. But who gives
a stuff. He'd beaten a murder charge. He'd got around statutory rape.
What could they charge him with now? Abduction and assault? The
way Les felt, he'd beat that standing on his head.
'Yes. I can,' said Les. 'The proof is in my bag. But first. I will
unmask this wretched miscreant.' Les undid the zipper, then reached
behind the Trough Queen and gripped its mask. 'Gentlemen, I give
you -- the Trough Queen.' An audible gasp echoed around the police
station as Les tore the Trough Queen's mask off.
'I don't fuckin believe it,' said Detective Tait.
'Well, if I hadn't been here to see it,' said Detective Caccano, 'I
wouldn't have believed it either.'
Les stepped back and like the others stared in astonishment at the
Trough Queen. Most of all Les. Possibly in amongst all the bullshit
he'd done it? Maybe this was the murderer? The motive was there.
Blackmail. The connection was there. Adelaide. The timing was there.
Had a nose job been done? Could the Trough Queen make a bomb?
Insurance coverage? Who cared? Les was off the hook.
The Trough Queen's lips curled back, trembling with anger.
Eyes blazing with hatred, the figure in black glared furiously around
the police station, shaking with rage. 'You vile, rotten swine, it
screamed. 'Get me my lawyer. And my agent. This is absolutely
outrageous.'
Shaking his head in amazement, Les took his camera out of his
backpack then handed the Trough Queen back its mask and
swimming goggles. 'And to think I used to go around telling people I
wouldn't piss on you. You've certainly made a liar out of me. Haven't
you, Nathan.'

The End
A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR

Firstly, thanks for all your letters. It's great to hear from you and I'm
doing my best to reply. But I get bogged down and I am lazy, so please be patient. Especially my readers in various big houses across
Australia. I also want to thank all those people who came to the book
signings for the The Wind and the Monkey. Particularly Newcastle.
When I walked into Charlestown Mall it was like Beatlemania. I've
never seen so many people. Anyway, the book went to Number One,
and I'd like to thank everyone for that. You'll notice the new book is
in a different size and format. That's something between my
publishers and the booksellers. But it will eventually come out as a
normal paperback if you prefer. The Possum Lady also said to say
hello and thanks for buying the T-shirts. Actually the Possum Lady
had a bit of bad luck recently. She went to a doctor to get the hair
lasered off her back and it all caught fire, and poor old Possum Lady
finished up with third-degree burns. New she's in a cast up to her
chin and looks like the Phantom of the Opera. But she's up and
about and ready by the phone in a special chair we got made for her
to take your orders for T-shirts, CDs, talking books or whatever at:
Psycho Possum Productions, PO Box 3348, Tamarama NSW 2026.
Now. People keep writing to me and asking me what's going on
with the Les Norton movie. Well, things have fallen in a bit of a hole
were. I can't elaborate on this for legal reasons. But the movie will get

made. I'm just going to have to come at it from a different direction.
So what I've done is this. I've paid a bloke an arm and a leg to write a
film script for Davo's Little Something. The script is finished, it looks
sensational and I reckon Davo's Little Something will make a red hot
movie. We'll find some investors and get it up. Then when we do, I'll
use the same team and make Les Norton movies the way they should
be made. And it's about time. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy Leaving Bondi. I'm not sure what's coming up next. I might even give
Les a break next year and do something else. Who knows? No matter
what, thanks for your support and I'll see you in the next book.
Robert G. Barrett