Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (16 page)

While Billy nosed slowly around the flat, Les tried to figure out what cleaning and repairing the place was going to cost him. Besides the actual labour, he was going to need paint, carpet, tiles and light-fittings. He'd also need a carpenter for the kitchen, and probably a plumber and a bloody tiler as well. Christ! It was going to cost a lot more than he thought. Billy was in the front bedroom and Les was still in the kitchen pondering and wondering what he'd ever done to deserve all this when the vroom-vroom-vroom sound of five big motorbikes pulling up in the street below drifted up past the window.

The window was closed and Les was deeply engrossed in thought so he didn't take a great deal of notice. He did a few minutes later, when the front door opened and closed and the sound of heavy footsteps and gruff, humourless voices came down the hall.

‘It's in here somewhere. It's fuckin' gotta be.'

‘Yeah, but where? We just about wrecked the fuckin' joint last time and we still couldn't find it.'

‘Well, this time we
will
wreck the joint. I ain't leavin' here without it. Even if we gotta take the fuckin' joint apart brick by fuckin' brick.'

From back in the kitchen, Les managed to get a good sight of who had just walked in. They were five bikies — big, mean and hairy. Two looked Australian, the other two could have been Maoris or Islanders of some description and the other was swarthy with a mop of curly black hair and a big, droopy moustache, suggesting he might have been Greek or had a bit of Arab in him. They were all wearing standard bikie gear: greasy T-shirts, Levis and boots and Levis jackets minus the sleeves. The Arab-looking one had his back slightly
turned and Les noticed ‘Rat Manners Motorcycle Club' embroidered on his jacket, around a drawing of a rat with an eye patch. The one doing most of the talking was an Australian about six feet three and as he spoke, he emphasised his words with a pinch bar he was carrying in his right hand. So, thought Norton, you're the young gentlemen that wrecked my flat and are going to cost me a lot of money. How jolly decent of you to call back.

‘Okay,' ordered the tall one carrying the pinch bar. ‘Gazza, you and Chin start in the lounge room. Pull it to fuckin' bits. Jacko, you and Monk go through both the bedrooms. I'm gonna tear this kitchen apart. But we ain't leavin' till we find it, even if we're here all fuckin' night.'

‘Righto, Mick.'

Eyebrows bristling and his adrenalin starting to pump, Norton decided it was time to make a move. He stepped up to the kitchen doorway.

‘Hello, fellas,' he said pleasantly. ‘Looking for something, are you? Maybe I can help you.'

All five bikies swung towards the kitchen doorway, annoyed someone was there more than startled. They glared at Les, exchanged a brief glance with each other for a moment before the tallest one spoke.

‘Who the fuck are you?' he said, in a demanding sort of snarl.

‘Who am I?' replied Norton. ‘I'm Mr Smith, the caretaker. I'm the poor mug that's got to clean up all this mess that you and your mates left here last time.'

There was a bit of a silence as the bikies exchanged mystified looks.

‘I have to admit, I was a bit upset at first, but it looks like you've come back to give me a bit of a hand. How thoughtful of you.' Norton looked evenly at the tall one with the pinch bar. ‘And to think that for a while there I thought all bikies were dirty, rotten low cunts. I do apologise.'

The bikies looked at each other, then at Les like he
was some big, poncey idiot and they couldn't quite believe what they were hearing. Whatever their thoughts, they certainly weren't in the realm of niceties.

‘Listen, Shithead, or Smith, or whatever your name is,' said the tall one holding the jemmy. ‘There's something in this flat belongs to us. And we ain't leavin' till we get it.'

‘Oh dear,' said Norton.

‘So, Smith — why don't you just fuck off till we're finished?'

‘Yeah. Go and sweep up out the front. Or clean out the shithouse,' said one of the Maoris.

‘Yeah. And come back in about a week,' added the other one.

If the bikies had Les rattled he certainly wasn't showing it and they could have been a bit curious as to what he was smiling at. But the bikies didn't see Billy slipping his watch off as he came quietly down the hall. Les did. He also caught Billy's eye and got the look they'd perfected between them at the Kelly Club. A sort of a code. Les knew exactly what to expect; and even though he was still a bit sore from the previous night it was exactly what he was looking for.

‘Can I help you gentlemen at all?' enquired Billy.

The bikits swung round at the new voice. Two glared at him, the other three kept their eye on Les.

‘And who are fuckin' you?' said the tall one again.

‘Me?' answered Billy. ‘I'm the other caretaker.'

The bikies were slightly taken aback, but only for a moment. Billy and Les weren't your average punters, but they were just as big, if not bigger, plus there was five of them and they had a pinch bar.

‘Yes,' continued Billy, still smiling sweetly. ‘I'm a caretaker with Bachman Turner Overdrive.' He turned to one of the Maori bikies on his right. ‘And you know what we like to take care of?'

For some reason the Maori bikie shook his head dumbly.

‘Business,' said Billy. Before you could blink, Billy
threw a left hook that caught the dumb bikie flush on the mouth. Billy had said he was training a lot and punching harder than ever, and Les didn't disbelieve him. He couldn't remember ever seeing a punch like it. The bikie's face seemed to disintegrate in a spray of blood and teeth. His knees buckled, his arms went limp and as his eyes rolled back, all sixteen stone of him slumped down on his backside. Before he hit the deck Billy belted the bikie on his left with a short right to the ear, a left hook and a right uppercut that nearly took his head off. Norton could hear the bones breaking across the other side of the room before he joined his mate on the floor. Jesus you are fit Billy, thought Les. Oh well, can't let you have all the fun on your own. Now it's my turn.

There were three bikies facing Les. He crouched low and drove a vicious, short right, straight into the one on his left's balls. It was a dirty punch and Norton smiled to himself as he heard the bikie scream. It was a good thing he ducked down because the tall bikie swung the jemmy in a backhand arc at Norton's head. It missed but almost took the entire side out of the door jamb — if it had landed it would have crushed Norton's skull. Les straightened up slightly and where the biggest bikie had left himself open smashed a short left up under his floating rib. He grunted with pain as Les slammed a short right into his temple that spun his brain around in his skull. Les followed this with a right backfist that crushed his nose and two quick, right elbow shots that ground what was left of it into bonedust. As he dropped the jemmy and started to slide, Norton kneed him in the spine. On the other side of the room Les could see Billy going toe to toe with the bikie with the droopy moustache. It was no match. The bikie was getting in one or two ineffectual hits, but Billy was in a crouch like a professional fighter, landing ten to the bikie's one, and literally chopping him to pieces and it looked like Billy was loving it; the week of solid training had turned him into a dynamo. The bikie dropped his hands and
Billy clamped his hands around his head, brought it down and rammed his knee up into his face leaping up off the floor as he did. It was a move that would have brought the crowd to its feet at Lumpinee Stadium in Bangkok.

This left one bikie standing. Somehow he made a lunge at Les. Les just stepped inside and headbutted him, moving his nose about two inches across his face. He was about to give him another one when the bikie yelped with pain and seemed to jerk towards him straight into another headbutt. Instead of going down the bikie seemed to jerk towards him again. Then behind him Les could see Billy ripping lefts and rights into his kidneys. He let him go and Billy jerked his head down by the hair and kneed him in the back of the head. The bikie hit the floor with a thud.

That should have been it, but Billy now had blood in his eye. ‘Well, that was all right, Les,' he grinned, still shaped up and still rocking around on the balls of his feet. ‘But what about a bit of Balmain folk dancing? Give the cunts something to remember us by.'

Norton thought about the one that had almost decapitated him with the pinch bar. ‘Okay, Billy,' he shrugged. ‘If you insist. Why not?'

The members of the Rat Manners Motorcycle Club were lucky that Billy and Les were wearing running shoes, because for the next five minutes they kicked them from one side of the lounge room to the other.

In the end Les had to pull Billy off or he would have still been kicking them when the sun went down. ‘Righto, Billy. Don't kill them, for Christ's sake.'

‘Why not?' replied Billy, trying to kick the one with the moustache's kidneys almost out of his back.

‘Because then we've got to cart them away. Leave them so they can drive themselves home.'

‘Yeah, fair enough.' Billy stopped kicking and grinned at Les. ‘Well, that was a bit of fun, wasn't it?'

Norton looked at the battered, moaning bikies. ‘I'm glad you think so, Billy.'

‘I told you I've been getting into the training.'

‘I believe you, mate. I believe you.' Yeah, I wouldn't fancy fighting you myself, thought Norton. ‘Well, come on. Let's get 'em out of the place. Their bikes should be out the front somewhere. They'll be able to get themselves home sooner or later.'

Billy grinned at Les. ‘No worries, mate. It's downhill all the way. Just open the door.'

Les had seen Billy in this sort of mood before and knew what to expect. Jesus you're a sadistic, low bastard, Dunne, he thought. But I'm sure glad I've got you for a mate. He opened the door and Billy began flinging the bikies down the stairs as though they were sacks of onions. Eventually they got them down to their bikes, leaving a trail of blood and other stuff down the stairs for the poor cleaner to get rid of later.

The bikies were lying on the footpath next to their Harleys, not in too good a shape. Norton went to the laundry and came back with a bucket of cold water, which he threw over them. Even though they were battered, they were still tough, hard men with probably a bit of ‘go fast' running through their systems, so the water brought them around. Somehow they managed to get on their bikes and glare at Les and Billy through bruised and bloodied eyes. Norton produced a piece of paper and a biro from his jeans and began taking down the registration numbers of their bikes.

‘Now, you listen to me,' he said solemnly. ‘I don't know who you gentlemen are, but I must warn you. Mr Scravortis here and I are the caretakers of this block of flats. And if there is any more of this outrageous behaviour from you, I will have no alternative but to call the authorities. I have the numbers of your bikes and if I see you around here again, I will not hesitate to inform the constabulary. As far as my friend and I are concerned you're a disgrace to the fine motorcycle club you represent.' The bikies glared at Les like they could have boiled him in oil. ‘Now let this be a lesson to you. Violence only begets violence. My friend and
I are good Christians and we won't tolerate this behaviour. Now, go on. On your way before I call the police.'

The bikies didn't have to be told twice. Somehow they got their bikes started and after a few muttered curses, and gobbing up some blood they rumbled off towards Avoca Road.

‘Jesus, you're a mug, Les,' grinned Billy. ‘Good Christians. Piss off.'

‘Well, I am.'

‘So was Nero. Listen, come back upstairs to that flat. I want to show you something.'

‘What? Is there a bikie left in there you want to kick?' ‘No.' Billy was serious. ‘There's something in there I want to show you.'

‘Okay,' shrugged Les. ‘Whatever.'

As Les took Billy back to the flat he was surprised to see no one around after all the ruckus. Then again, the fight didn't last all that long — barely a few minutes — and the only noise when they tossed the bikies out was a bit of laughing and swearing from Les and Billy. The five ‘Rats' didn't say a great deal at all.

‘In here,' said Billy, after Les closed the door. ‘In this front bedroom.' Les followed Billy into the litter-strewn bedroom. ‘On the wall next to the bed. I reckon someone's tried to write something in blood.'

Norton's eyebrows knitted. ‘Turn it up, Billy.'

‘No, I'm fair dinkum. I remember something like this years ago. I had a ten-rounder at Marrickville RSL. The young bloke in one of the prelims before me copped an awful hiding. He was a mess. And I remember him saying to me he was never going to fight again. They couldn't get his nose to stop bleeding and they put him on this rubbing table. And I remember to this day, him writing on the wall in his own blood, Boxing is a Bastard. Now look at this.' Billy pointed to some scrawls and smears of blood on the wall next to the bed which had dried a rusty kind of brown; if you looked at them in a certain way and used your imagination they did look like letters.

‘Look at this,' continued Billy, running his fingers over the smears. ‘There's a B. And an S. And that looks like an A. There's another B and an A and that's a T. And I don't know what that is. It looks like an N or an M or two N's or something. I reckon he's tried to write Bastards bashed me or something, before they've either sprung him or he passed out.'

Les was about to tell Billy he'd been reading too many cheap detective novels when something about the blood smears on the wall hit him between the eyes like a piece of four by two.

‘Jesus Christ, Billy,' he said. ‘Have another look. That is a B an S and A, all right. It stands for BSA. And the N, the T, and the M and the rest of it. You know what he's written?'