Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (11 page)

‘I'll tell you something Nola,' he grinned. ‘This book you're researching now. You said there's a murder in an old block of flats and a search for some missing tomfoolery. Is that right?'

‘Yeah. That's part of it, Les.'

‘Well, if you want to come over to where I'm staying, I might be able to show you something that could help you with your book. Something very fishy in the state of Denmark.'

The woman novelist from Balmain gave Norton an amused if not quizzical look. ‘This isn't some insidious ploy, is it, Les? To get me back to your manor, where the evil squire rips open my bodice and, ignoring my anguished sobs and cries for help, forces me onto the bed and has his reprehensible and dastardly way with me. Is it, Les?'

Norton blinked at her. ‘I don't even know what you're talking about. I just want to show you something that might suit that devious writer's mind of yours. Besides,' he added, ‘do I look like an evil squire?'

‘No. You look just like a typical Australian jock half full of beer who'd root a goanna with a festered arse if someone would hold its head.'

Norton angled his head towards one shoulder, poked out his bottom lip and tried to look hurt.

‘Oh, don't give me any of that little boy lost shit, Les. Come on. Let's go and have a look at what you're on about.'

‘If you want any more to drink, there's nothing back there but beer and coffee.'

‘Doesn't matter. A beer'll do fine.'

Nola put her clipboard in her bag and they headed towards the old block of flats with the novelist from Balmain falling against the caretaker from Randwick for support on more than one occasion. When they got there, Norton noticed the maroon Jaguar was parked out the front. Hello, he mused, looks like the artist is
doing a little entertaining. Then again, maybe he's just sitting for a portrait. Yeah, that'd be right. More like her sitting on his face. Oh well.

‘So this is your sumptuous apartment is it Les?' said Nola giving the caretaker's flat a very laodicean onceover. ‘Looks nice. Who had it before you. Burke and Hare?'

‘A little ex-jockey with a crook leg,' answered Norton.

‘He'd certainly have a crook something after living here.'

‘You want a beer?' asked Les, going to the fridge and pulling out two cans of Fourex.

‘Thanks.' Nola had a quick sniff around the kitchen. ‘Don't bother about a glass. I'll drink it straight from the can.'

Norton flipped off the ring-pulls and handed Nola a can. ‘Cheers,' he said, with a smile.

‘Yes. Cheers, Les.' Nola took quite a healthy pull for a dignified writer and had another look around the tiny flat. ‘So this is part of your fabulous Blue Seas Apartments, eh, Les?' she said, with just a hint of sarcasm in her clear, soft voice. ‘It's really nice. It's got... it's got depth of character.' She raised her can. ‘Here's to the depth... to the deep Blue Seas.' Nola took another good glug of Fourex.

‘Yeah. To the deep Blue Seas,' replied Norton, matching her drunken grin and taking a good slurp of beer himself. ‘Anyway,' he said. ‘I didn't bring you here just to show you my fifteen thousand dollar, Customtone dream kitchen. Grab your clipboard, Agatha Christie, and follow Hercule Norton to the scene of the crime.'

The light in the hallway of flat five was the only one that worked but after Les fumbled around and switched it on it was enough to cast an eerie glow over the inside of the flat and the carnage littering the floors and rooms to make it look more like the scene of some horrible crime than ever.

‘My God!' gasped Nola. ‘Whatever happened here?'

‘You tell me — you're the writer,' replied Les. ‘But
I'd reckon someone was in here looking for something, wouldn't you say? Like missing jewellery?'

‘Christ! TheyVe practically destroyed the place.'

‘Yes. They were certainly efficient, weren't they?'

Nola blinked around the flat in disbelief for a few moments then the Robert Ludlum or something suddenly came out in her. She dropped her beer on a shelf in the kitchen, grabbed her note pad and biro and began furiously scribbling away. She seemed to almost ignore Les as she flicked over the pages. He could hear her breath coming in short gasps; it was almost as if the whole macabre scene was turning her on.

‘Oh, this is fucking fantastic,' she cried.

‘Madam, please. Mind your language.'

‘Fuck my language, sunshine. I've never seen anything like this in my life.' Nola stopped to take another healthy slurp of beer then began scribbling away some more.

‘You want a murder scene, Ms Lloyd? Have a look at this.'

Les took her into the smashed-up bathroom and showed her the dried blood spattered around the bath; the sickly light coming in from the hallway gave it a dull, rusty sheen. It was sinister and gruesome to an extreme and Nola was loving every second and every detail of it.

‘Oh, Les,' she almost shrieked. ‘This is unbelievable!'

‘I'm glad you like it,' replied Norton.

‘Like it? I love it!' Nola threw her arms around Norton's neck and kissed him full on the mouth. ‘You're a doll, Les. Thanks.'

‘My pleasure.'

Norton stood sipping his beer in the lounge room as Nola skipped from room to room taking notes. She toed through the wreckage on the floor, picking up pieces of torn and shredded clothing. She ran her hands over the smashed furniture and ripped bedding almost as if she was caressing it. Every now and again she'd let out a little squeal of delight. If Norton wasn't mistaken it almost sounded as if the sensuous novelist from Balmain
was starting to come to the boil. Finally, she returned to the kitchen, put down her clipboard and had a very lengthy and unladylike pull on her can of Fourex, almost draining it. She noticed Les watching her, and walked over to him and put her arms around his waist.

‘Oh, Les,' she sighed. ‘What can I say? This is perfect. It's... it's just breathtaking.'

Norton put his arms around her, stroked her hair and massaged the small of her back. ‘See, the Aussie jock wasn't having you on. I told you there was something in here you'd go for.'

She snuggled into his chest. ‘Mmmhh, you're not wrong.'

Norton continued to rub her back as Nola's breathing turned into a kind of rasping purr. Before long Les could feel her grinding herself against him. She angled her head up as Les looked down and in the half-light from the hallway he could see a sheen in her eyes almost as if they were glazing over. She ran her tongue lasciviously over her lips. Norton tilted his head to the side and down and kissed her; and the lady writer from Balmain knew how to kiss. Richard Burton knew what he was talking about when they asked him what was the first thing he looked for in a woman. And he said she must be at least thirty.

Nola's lips were soft and warm and pure delight and the tip of her warm, sweet tongue played havoc with Norton's. He squeezed her into him and she ground harder against his pelvis. Les ran his hands up over her ribs and across her small but firm boobs enclosed but in no way supported by a delicate, white lace bra. He brought his hands down and began squeezing the cheeks of her neat backside, edging her skirt up at the same time. Nola started kissing him with more passion and hunger than ever; scrabbling at his hair and grabbing his T-shirt. Les kissed her neck and a tongue darted into his ear.

‘Why don't we go downstairs to my flat?' he said. The sheen in her eyes had disappeared and all that was there now was the pure devil.

‘What's wrong with right here?' she breathed.

‘You're the boss lady.'

Flat five wasn't exactly Norton's idea of a romantic setting and there wasn't much in the way of furniture except for the half-smashed lounge with the stuffing and springs sticking out in parts. He eased Nola onto it, removed her denim boots and slipped off her dainty white knickers, leaving the woollen skirt on. He got out of his jeans and sneakers and no sooner had his Speedos off than Nola reached up and started working on his old boy like it was a big, juicy banana paddle-pop. Les went cross-eyed and he could feel the veins round his temple pumping as his knob swelled up like a balloon. That Richard Burton was no mug, all right. Oh well, thought Les. What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. He spread her legs and decided it was time for a big face full of crime writer's ted.

Nola bucked and squealed as the big Queenslander went to work with his teeth and tongue. Moaning and groaning, she clawed at his hair and the neck of his T-shirt. It was a lot of fun but Les was getting too horny; he had to have her. He lifted up Nola's knees and started to slide in. Nola let out a choking moan that seemed to come from somewhere down near her toenails, she shuddered, shook her head and clawed at his back till Les was all in, then away they went.

Nola knew how to make love. She wriggled, kissed Norton's neck and screamed with joy. Les felt like he was Errol Flynn. If Nola was making some noise while he had a face full, now she sounded as if he was chopping off one of her legs with a blunt axe. Christ, thought Les. I hope those walls are double brick, or those poor bloody hippies'll think there's another murder going on. The beer kept Norton a little restrained but he couldn't last forever; Nola's ted was too warm, firm and moist and already he'd felt her go off under him twice. Ahh, fuck the neighbours, he thought. He lifted her ankles almost up under her chin and away he went, putting in the big ones. Nola shrieked louder and Les felt as
if his brain was going to burst out of his ears. He felt her go off again, just as Les exploded himself; he rode it out, then came to a shuddering, panting halt.

They lay there holding each other for a while, but if the old lounge was okay for screwing on it definitely wasn't made for pillow talk. Les suggested it might be an idea if they got their gear on, went back to his flat and got cleaned up and maybe have another beer. Nola agreed.

‘Well,' said Norton, raising his can and giving her a kiss on the cheek. They were cleaned up now and Les had his ghetto blaster on softly in the background. ‘Here's to
Ten Milligrams Of Mayhem
, or whatever you call it. Did you enjoy your research?'

Nola put her arms around Les and gave him that throaty chuckle again. ‘I told you research was a lot of fun, didn't I?'

They sipped their beers and sort of jigged around to the tune on the radio. Bang The Drum's ‘Only You'. ‘Hey, Nola?' said Norton.

‘Yes, Les.'

‘This book you're writing?'

‘Yes. What about it?'

‘You feel like researching another chapter?'

Nola looked up at him and out came another throaty chuckle. ‘Why not?' she answered. ‘Another paragraph or two wouldn't go astray.'

Number two was pretty good but it didn't quite have the lust or spontaneity of upstairs; maybe it lacked atmosphere. There was still nothing wrong with it though and both were more than happy with a warm glow planted in their cheeks when they finished. However, if the old lounge upstairs was uncomfortable, the night-and-day in Norton's flat wasn't quite meant for honey-mooners either. Before long they were both dressed again and Les was walking her out the front. As they stepped out into Aquila Street, Les noticed that the maroon Jaguar was gone. Wonder what'll be parked there tomorrow, he mused. A Maserati? A Mercedes SLE?

Les apologised to Nola that he couldn't drive her home, but he'd poured quite a bit of beer down his throat that night and if a booze bus pulled him up and put a bag on him he'd probably blow the thing to the other side of the moon. He'd have to shout her home in a cab. Nola said that was all right. She'd got a lift out and was expecting to catch a taxi home, anyway. At least that's something blokes can thank the wallopers and their breathalyser for, thought Les. It certainly takes the stigma out of putting sheilas in a cab to save driving them home after you've got pissed and done the business.

Nola actually thanked Les for a splendid evening and she was quite sincere about it. She gave him her phone number and said to ring her in a week or so if he wanted to, after she'd got back from visiting her family in Adelaide. They kissed goodnight and the last Les saw of her was her smiling face as she waved out of the back of a Legion cab heading towards Randwick Junction.

Norton couldn't help but chuckle to himself as he ambled back to the old block of flats. It had been two crackajack roots, and one a very unusual one. Nola was a top lady plus he'd broken in the old flat the first night he'd been there. He was still keen to get onto Miss Picasso, though all those blokes hanging around her had taken some of the elan off it. Still, a couple of slices off the loaf shouldn't make that much difference.

When he got back to the flats Les suddenly found himself absolutely busting for a leak. He decided to piss down his side passage facing Aquila Street. If a man couldn't piss all over his own block of flats in a democracy, what could he do?

Norton was hosing away at the fence when a grey BMW pulled into Aquila Street and parked almost where the maroon Jag had pulled out. Ohh no, thought Les. This couldn't possibly be — not at this time of night. A wiry sort of figure got out of the BMW and, although it wasn't all that cold, he was wearing an expensive-looking beige trenchcoat and a hat pulled down over his eyes. In the dark the figure couldn't see Les and
likewise Les couldn't make out the figure's face. But there was something in the figure's mannerisms and the way he walked that Les could almost swear he'd seen him before. The figure looked up and down the street and walked into Blue Seas Apartments. Ohh, no, thought Les. This isn't real. He zipped up his fly and peeked into the main entrance of the flats through the door. Sure enough, the figure was knocking softly on flat three. I don't fuckin' believe this, thought Les. The figure wasn't there more than a second or two when he went inside leaving Les blinking into the gloomy light. Well, I'll be stuffed, he thought again. Why doesn't the moll just hang a red light out the front and be done with it? He shook his head, went inside, cleaned his teeth and hit the sack. His disappointment in Miss Picasso lingered in his mind for a short while, along with the odd mannerisms of her last boyfriend, but he soon put it out of his mind. Even if the old night-and-day was a bit hard and his pillow a little lumpy, after two solid roots and a gut full of beer Norton was soon in the land of nod.