Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (18 page)

No, it was a sad fact of life — Blue Seas Apartments had to go, and the sooner the better. But how? Well how was pretty obvious. The block would have to be hit by Jewish lightning. Or what about a nice Lebanese stocktake. But those two particular things were a bit passe and old hat. What's wrong with a Romanian midsummer clearance? And Norton knew just the person to organise it. He was owed a favour, a big one, and it was time to pull that favour in. He finished his orange juice, tossed the container in the nearest bin and started walking over to his car. Halfway across the road, he patted the pocket which contained the recipe he and Billy had found in the old BSA, looked up at the sky and grinned. Yes, boss, Norton said to himself. There just might be a way out of this yet. He kicked the old Ford over and headed towards Bondi.

Christ, I wonder what I'm going to tell Woz, Les smiled to himself when he pulled up in Cox Avenue and saw his flatmate's red Celica still parked out the front of the house. I s'pose 111 think of some bloody thing. Norton was smiling and whistling to himself as he opened the front door — yes it sure was good to be back home again. The decent shower, his own double bed with a
proper mattress, stereo, TV, and to be able to cook a steak on a decent stove. If Les was whistling and smiling when he opened the front door, it abruptly stopped when he walked down the hallway into the lounge room. He propped and gave a double, triple blink as his jaw dropped. There were empty bottles and glasses all over the place; plus records, tapes, ashtrays half full of cigarette butts, chip packets and a host of other odds and ends.

In the kitchen Warren was sitting hunched over a cup of coffee in his white shave-coat, looking like death warmed up.

‘Hello, Les, how are you?' he said.

Norton blinked at Warren almost in disbelief. ‘“Hello Les, how are you?”' he echoed. ‘Hello Les. Don't fuckin' “hello Les” me, you cunt. What the fuck's been going on here?'

‘I had a bit of a party.'

‘You had a bit of a party. A party. I'm not out of the place five minutes, and you're throwing parties. In
my
fuckin' house.'

‘Well, I didn't know where you were. You left no message. You didn't ring. Knowing the life you lead and the people you run with, I thought you were dead.' ‘You thought I was dead, eh?' Les went to the lounge room and came back with an empty Jack Daniels bottle. ‘And what happened to going off the piss for a week?' ‘Well, that's what started it. When I thought you were dead, I was gripped with remorse. And I hit the bottle again.'

‘You rotten, lying little toerag.'

Norton picked up his overnight bag and the ghetto blaster and went to his room.

He was back almost before he left glaring and pointing an accusing finger at Warren. ‘Somebody's had a fuck in my bed. You low, dirty cunt, Warren Edwards.'

‘Nobody's had a fuck in your bed,' groaned Warren. ‘And please, Les. Do you have to shout?'

‘Well who's been in it? Don't say it was the cat, 'cause we ain't got a fuckin' cat.'

‘It was the girl I was with last night. She... she didn't want to sleep with me 'cause I was too drunk. And it was late, so she dossed in your bed. She left about half an hour ago.'

‘Hah!' snorted Norton. ‘I see nothing's changed since I've been gone. Party or no party. You still can't get a root, you poor silly cunt. You're hopeless.'

Warren stared into his coffee mug for a moment, then decided to go on the offensive himself. ‘So where have you been anyway, you prick? The least you could have done is rung. And what happened to your face and your bloody neck? You come in here abusing me in my time of grief for practically no reason at all. You've got a bit of explaining to do yourself, you fuckin' big dope.'

Norton went to the sink and switched on the electric kettle. Warren's sudden attack flummoxed him a bit and he had to try hard not to smile. ‘Well,' he said, as he fossicked around getting a mug of coffee together, ‘the reason I didn't ring, is because I've been shacked up with a married woman while her husband was overseas. And as you know, Warren, that's not my go.'

‘Hello. The Queensland sex symbol's got himself into a bit of scandal, eh?'

‘Sort of. She's only young and she's married to this rich old bloke. I knew her from the Kelly Club. She's always been chasing me — she rang me, so I discreetly went over to her place for a few days and hung round the pool. She's got a big joint over at Seaforth.'

‘And what happened to your head?'

‘Well, one morning I heard this noise and I thought it was her husband coming home, so I leapt out the window into the garden and hit my head on some rocks.' The kettle boiled and Les poured his coffee. ‘But it was only the caretaker come round to fix a leaky tap in the kitchen.'

‘Hah! Serves you right.'

‘And these,' Les pulled the neck of his T-shirt down, ‘they're love-bites. She was one hell of a lover, I can tell you that, Warren, me old mate.'

‘Christ! It looks like she tried to strangle you.'

‘She did. With her tongue.' Norton took a sip of coffee and smiled at his flatmate. ‘Unlike you, dry-balls, I have been getting my end in. In fact Warren, I'm convinced that after your recent run of outs, the only way you're ever going to get laid is to crawl up a chicken's arse and wait.'

‘Ha-ha-ha! Very bloody droll.'

‘Anyway, Woz, to cut a long story short: Rosie's husband was due home this morning, so here I am. The landlord's back in town. Sober and not hungover like some pisspot too, I might add.'

‘How wonderful.'

‘Yes. And don't get too comfortable sitting there, soupbones. You've got a lot of cleaning up to do before you bundy on at the pickle factory.'

‘Don't shit yourself. I don't have to be at the office till lunchtime.'

Norton took his coffee into the lounge room and surveyed the evidence of the previous night's festivities. ‘And if there's one fuckin' scratch, one tiny scratch on any of my Hunters And Collectors albums...' Norton's eyes narrowed as he turned to Warren, ‘your future in the cosy warmth of Maison Norton could be very bleak, old son. Very bleak indeed.'

Warren shook his head and stared into his coffee. ‘Why couldn't that woman's husband have stayed away another week? It was just starting to get good.'

With Norton helping as much as berating, they were able to get the house cleaned up and Warren off to work by eleven-thirty. Les wanted to get into Warren a bit more about having parties behind his back, but after a nice shower and a change of clothes, being back at home after that flophouse in Randwick had him in too good a mood; plus the look of remorse on Warren's face mixed with the misery of his hangover was satisfaction enough. Warren was gone about ten minutes when Norton made another cup of coffee, got a clipboard and a biro and sat down on the lounge near the phone.
He made a few notations on the clipboard and fixed the six sheets of paper from the old BSA plus the numberplates of the gang's motorbikes he'd taken down on there as well. The notations and tiny drawings looked almost like a plan of battle. What he was going to try and pull off, a very dubious earn and get rid of his old block of flats, was not something you took lightly. In a way, it was a battle campaign, and Les would treat it as such. He made a few more notations, did a bit of adding and subtracting and had a think. After a while, Norton gave a grunt of satisfaction and decided it was time to make some phone calls.

‘Hello, George. How are you, mate?' said Norton. ‘It's Les.'

‘Well, if it isn't the boy wonder from the deep north,' replied George Brennan cheerfully. ‘How are you, shifty?'

‘Not bad, George. How's yourself?'

‘Terrific. Did Billy tell you what's going on up at the club?'

‘Yeah. I saw him down the beach on Sunday. He said you're all getting it pretty easy.'

‘Easy? Without you up there to annoy me, it's almost like a paid holiday. It's beautiful. Price tried to ring you to see if you and Billy want to do it week about. But you've never been home.'

‘No. I've been running around with this sheila I met. I've been staying at her place.'

‘Where did you find this one? The Taxi Club?'

‘No, outside the Matt Talbot. I shouted her a flagon of sweet sherry.'

They chitchatted away for a while, with George doing his best to rubbish Les and Les happy to feed the jovial, fat, casino manager a string of lies. Then they got down to the business at hand.

‘So, what can I do for you anyway, Les, me old currant bun?'

‘You still got that nephew working out the Roads and Traffic Authority?'

‘Yes. The bludging little arsehole is still there.'

‘I got the number of a motorbike. I need to find out who owns it.'

‘No worries. Give it to me. I'll ring Shithead up and get straight back to you.'

‘Good on you, George.'

Les consulted the clipboard in front of him, circled the numberplate he assumed belonged to the leader of the bikies that day, gave it to George then hung up. George rang back in around ten minutes.

‘Fuckin' cunt,' was the first thing he said. ‘He just tried to snip me for five hundred dollars. The little prick.'

‘Did he have any luck, Uncle George?'

‘None. Anyway, here's the bloke you're looking for. That bike belongs to Michael Ryan Sutton, 232 Carinyah Road, Bonnyrigg.'

‘Christ! That
is
out west,' said Norton, writing the address down.

‘I assume you're going out there to bash this bloke, Les. What did he do? Steal your one pair of socks off the line?'

‘No, George. Warren sprung him knocking off a bottle of milk out the front.'

‘That'd be a good enough reason for you.'

They joked on the phone for a few more minutes then Les hung up, saying he'd call into the club one night and have a drink.

Norton looked at the name and address and drummed his fingers on the clipboard. Michael Sutton — that would be right, because he remembered the other bikies answering to him as Mick. Well, if Mick was the boss, he'd almost certainly be in the phone book. Les picked up the White Pages and looked under S. It was there, all right. He wrote it down on the notepad, circled it, and had a quick think. What was that old saying? Strike while the iron is hot. Yes, there's certainly no time like the present. He dialled again and this time a nasally whining woman's voice answered.

‘Hello,' it drawled.

‘Yes. Is Mick there please?'

‘I dunno,' replied the voice carefully. ‘I'll have a look. Who'll I say it is?'

Norton had to think for a moment. If he said he was anyone to do with the old block of flats Mick probably wouldn't come to the phone. Bikies generally all have nicknames like Jacko, Davo, Oily, Smelly, Greaseball... He lifted one cheek of his backside off the lounge and farted.

‘Tell him it's Stinky,' he said, waving at the smell with the clipboard.

Les could hear footsteps, a TV going in the background, some dogs barking, then more heavy footsteps. Then someone picked up the phone.

‘Yeah, this is Mick. Who's this?'

‘Hello, Mick, me old mate,' replied Norton happily. ‘It's Mr Smith here, the caretaker of those flats at Randwick. I met you on Sunday.'

Sitting painfully in his weatherboard Bonnyrigg cottage, with six broken ribs, a couple of teeth missing and stitches and bruising all over his head, Mick wasn't ready for or wanting this. Norton had to hold the phone almost a foot away from his ear at the bikie leader's reply.

‘What the fuck do you want?!!! How did you get this fuckin' number?!!'

‘I wrote down the number of your motorbike, Mick. Easy.'

‘Why you! Go and get—'

‘Now hold on, Mick,' cut in Les. ‘Don't be like that. I've rung up to help you.'

‘The only way you could help me, you cunt, is to —'

‘Yeah, I know,' interrupted Norton ‘fall into a vat of boiling sump oil. But the thing is, Mick, I think I've found what you and your friends were looking for.' This slowed the big bikie up and stopped him from slamming down the phone. Les could hear his angry breathing and picture the look on his face. He smiled to himself as he recollected pulling a stroke something like this
before and moved the point of the biro across page one of the recipe. ‘Does “Preparation of Beta-Phenyl Isopropylamine In Five Kilogram Amounts” mean anything to you, Mick?' Norton swore he could almost hear the bikie's face screw up and his eyes click over the phone. ‘What about, “Acetic Acid in a two litre induction flask, heat to 280° fahrenheit”?' Norton flicked through the pages. “Benzol-Pschyloprine, Sodium Iso”... Shit! There's six pages of this stuff here and I can't even pronounce half of it. But it's all here. Retort stands, ketones. And I'm pretty certain it's what you're looking for, Mick.' Norton waited for a moment. ‘Are you there, Mick?'

‘Yeah, I'm fuckin' here,' hissed the big bikie. ‘Listen, where did you get that?'

‘Where? In that flat. Where do you think?'

‘You fuckin' —'

‘Now hold on Mick. It's no good getting the shits. The thing is, it's a recipe for crank. I've got it and you want it. And I'm more than willing to let you have it. But like I told you on Sunday, Mick, me and my mate are very religious people. And before we give it to you, you're going to have to make quite a considerable donation to the church.' Norton could sense the bikie's rage over the phone at the almost futile position he was in. Now it was time to really stir the pot. ‘You can have it back for a hundred thousand dollars.'

‘
What
!!! You know what you can fuckin' well do.'

‘No,' chuckled Les, ‘but I can imagine. A hundred grand, Mick. I'll ring you tomorrow morning at ten sharp. You got that?' The bikie didn't reply but Les knew he was still on the line. ‘A hundred grand, you get your recipe back — I don't give it to the cops and I don't take them up to flat five and tell them what I think happened to Jimmy. It'd be a good bust for them, Mick. They'd love that, on the news and everything. I'll ring you tomorrow morning, ten a.m.'