Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (7 page)

‘Jesus bloody Christ!'exclaimed Les. ‘What the fuckin' hell?' He'd never seen anything like it.

Same in both bedrooms; there was more blood on the walls showing up as rusty, dark stains on the old brown carpet. The wardrobes were smashed and even the mirrors had been shattered and tom off their hinges. Someone had smashed up the beds then taken to the mattresses with a knife, spreading kapok and springs amongst whatever already littered the floor. A dressing table in the front room looked as if some maniac had attacked it with an axe.

‘Bloody hell!' muttered Les.

The bathroom was the same only they'd torn apart the sink and ripped down the medicine chest above. They'd even kicked in the sides of the bath and torn out the shower fittings. Worst of all was the amount of congealed, browning blood all over the bath. An attempt had been made to wash some away but what was left showed the sheer ferocity of the attackers.

‘Shit!' said Les.

Norton walked slowly through the carnage double blinking. He'd seen some sights in his time, but nothing
quite like this. And to think he owned it. It was fairly obvious what had happened though. Jimmy's bikie pals had come around looking for something — more than likely drugs. They'd started to bash some information out of the hapless Jimmy and, going by the amount of blood in the bathroom, they'd overdone it and killed him and then taken the body away, just like old Hoppy had said.

Norton toed his way through the shoes, shirts, jeans and other torn clothing that littered the floor; an old brown sports coat even had the shoulder pads cut out. Whatever it was they were looking for, thought Les, they were sure keen to find it. And now I gotta clean all this fuckin' shit up. Not today though. Then Norton's eyes darkened. One thing's for certain. If ever I find the cunts that did this, I know who else'll be getting cleaned up.

He was still shaking his head and staring at the havoc around him when he heard it. At first it sounded like a squadron of bombers flying low overhead, vibrating down one wall and coming in through the open window of the flat. Les had heard the sound before, though not so much in Sydney. But he knew where this was coming from and who was behind it. He had a last look around him, then closed the door and walked up to the roof.

It was the hippies from flat six all right. There were three of them, sitting cross-legged in a semicircle, out of it blowing for all they were worth into their didgeridoos. But unlike the hippies Les had seen up in Yurriki, who were clean and fairly tidy, these three made your average park wino look like Trent Nathan. Their hair was like greasy rope, the soles of their feet were absolutely pitch black and even from where he was standing Les could smell BO that bad you could have photographed it. They wore filthy sweatbands and equally filthy tie-dyed T-shirts and singlets hanging out over crushed velvet pants. The main reason they were crushed velvet was because they'd never seen an iron since the day these chats had more than likely flogged them off some clothesline.

Then Norton realised where he'd seen these three grubs before. It was up at the stalls in Oxford Street, Paddington one Saturday afternoon. Some sheila Les had been taking out had dragged him up there and this mob, plus more, were out on the footpath with a sign saying,
Didgeridoo Massage $5
. They had one of their team lying down on the footpath as a stooge and were running the didgeridoos over her as she writhed in absolute, bunged-on joy. It was one of the best cons Les had ever seen and only her black stinkin' feet gave her away. The best part though, thought Les, was that they were actually getting mugs in at five bucks a toss.

They noticed Les standing there but chose to ignore him as they howled away into the long, wooden pipes. After a few moments, Norton walked over and placed his foot over the end of the nearest hippy's didgeridoo. He stopped blowing, as did the others, and looked up at Les as though they half expected him to be a cop.

‘Hey, what's the hassle man?' he said.

Norton looked distastefully at all three of them, then back at the one whose music he'd interrupted. ‘No hassle, man,' said Les, sarcastically. ‘I'm the new caretaker.' Although not actually taking Les to their breast, the hippies did seem relieved that he wasn't a cop. ‘You got any idea what happened in flat five? And what happened to the bloke that was living there?'

There was a chorus of. ‘No, man... We didn't see anything, man. We weren't here whenever what it is you're talking about happened, man... Sorry, man... We can't help you at all, man.'

What they really meant was they'd seen and heard everything but were too terrified to talk about it. You didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that out. But what was the use of grilling them. They probably wouldn't be able to tell him all that much. And what they could would come out like a load of shit, anyway.

‘Yeah, righto,' nodded Les. ‘Don't worry about it.' He left them to their music, or whatever it was, and went back downstairs.

There was still no one around out the front and as Les walked across to his car he noticed the old blue kombi Hoppy had told him about. It was just as rough and dirty as the people who owned it. There was a pair of rusty roof-racks on top and various environmental stickers on the windows: Save the Whales, Solar Not Nuclear, Stop Japanese Drift Netting. Oh well, mused Norton, the hippies might stink, but at least their hearts are in the right place. He got in the old Ford and headed for Bondi.

Seeing as he had almost insulted Warren with that horrible mince the night before, Les thought it might be an idea if he got his act together and cooked something a bit decent that night. So he bought a comer cut of topside. He also thought it might be an idea if he stopped being so moody and quit sulking or Warren might start to smell a rat. He'd never told Warren about Blue Seas and he sure as hell didn't want to bring it up now or what was on his mind.

While the roast was cooking and Norton was fartarsing around the house he reflected on the day; thinking about it only made the situation worse. Blue Seas was a bigger dog than he had ever imagined — he should have checked it out more thoroughly when he bought it. His tenants or what he'd seen of them so far, were a soapy-looking lot to say the least. And now it looked like there'd been a murder on the premises. So what to do about that? Call the police? Yeah, they'd probably try and pin the thing on him, knowing his record. Flat five would just have to go on hold for the time being. The only bright spot of the day, if you could call it that, was getting the old caretaker out so smoothly. And even that had cost him two hundred bucks. Fuck. What a schemozzle.

But if anything was wrong that night Warren would never have known. The roast beef was the grouse and Les bubbled away, saying he'd spent the day with some mates playing cards and a bit of snooker and drinking mineral water. Yes, Warren was right, it had been withdrawals Les
had been going through the night before. There was no escaping the brilliant, young advertising executive's amazing powers of perception. Warren rubbed it in and said he'd never felt better in his life and added quite confidently that he didn't care if he never had another drink in his life. Les added that he only wished he had Warren's iron backbone and phenomenal resilience. They watched a video Warren had brought home and were both in bed around midnight.

Thursday was pretty much like the day before when Les rose at his usual time; the southerly was still keeping the temperature down but it didn't seem as cloudy. Again he had another run in Centennial Park and again when he got home Warren had left for the office early. The run, although hard, was enjoyable almost relaxing even and physically Les felt on top of the world after he got cleaned up. He was beginning to come to grips with the situation at Blue Seas. Due to a certain amount of bad luck and no doubt his own negligence, he was stuck with an albatross around his neck. But somehow he'd work that out. He'd have to. He was going to lose money — there was no doubt about that — but no matter what, it wasn't going to break him. The scene in flat five was a different kettle of fish, however, and a nasty one. He decided it might be best if he made a phone call straight after breakfast, as soon as Isaac Steinberg and Marvin Ringblum opened for business.

‘Hello? Steinberg and Ringblum Real Estate,' said a polite voice.

‘Yes, it's Mr Norton, the owner of Blue Seas Apartments. I'd like to speak to Mr Ringblum, please.'

‘Mr Ringblum's not in at the moment.'

‘Mr Steinberg then.'

‘Mr Steinberg's just popped out for a moment. Can I take a message?'

‘Yes. Tell him Mr Olsen's gone and I'll be doing the caretaking and maintenance from now on.'

‘All right, Mr Norton.'

‘And tell him the tenant's moved out of flat five, and not to bother re-letting it at the moment as I want to paint it and re-carpet it.'

‘I'll see that he gets the message. Anything else, Mr Norton?'

‘No. That's all.'

‘Thank you. Bye.'

Norton stared absently at the phone for a few seconds. That was another bloody thing. While flat five was empty it was costing him more money. So the sooner he did get it cleaned up and repaired the better. He drummed his fingers on the table. But a few more days wouldn't make much difference. In the meantime, he mused, I am the caretaker. So I imagine I'd better do just that. Caretake. He got into an old pair of jeans and sweatshirt he used for cleaning up round the house or working on the car, got a few things from the kitchen and the ghetto blaster from his bedroom and headed for Randwick.

Old Hoppy hadn't left the small flat in too bad a condition — it was a bit dusty maybe, but there were no rings in the bath and no lumps of fruit chutney stuck around the sides of the toilet bowl. But you could bet your life there'd be no shortage of fleas and cockroaches and various other forms of suburban wildlife hanging around. With the ghetto blaster going in the background, Norton Baygoned all the cupboards and Pea-Beaued all the carpets and poured bleach down the bath, both sinks, and the toilet bowl. The old gas heater above the kitchen sink caught his eye. He gave a good, long burst of Baygon underneath it, and all round the back. It was only a matter of seconds and it looked like the old heater was being hit by an earthquake. Then out they came. Cockroaches. Only little ones mainly, but there were virtually millions of them, coughing and spluttering, almost carrying suitcases and their furniture as they staggered out of the heater and fell down the wall into the sink.

‘
Aiee
!!' cried Les. ‘The evil ones!' He poured the Baygon into them. ‘Die, evil ones. Die!' A bigger one staggered
across the sink; Les crushed it with a rolled up newspaper. ‘Go to your grave, miserable cur.' Another big one got the same treatment. ‘Feel my blade, craven dog. Let death be your reward.'

Parodying the voice of Conan The Barbarian, Les got stuck into the army of cockies, spraying, swatting and scooping them into the sink. Unexpectedly there was a knock on the door.

‘Hello? Who's this?'

He opened the door and gave a double blink. Standing there was a dumpy little bloke of about sixty, wearing a brown skivvy and blue trousers. Perched on his head was a blue beret and a pair of fat, round sunglasses sat on a fat round nose set in a fat round face. It was all Norton could do to stop from bursting out laughing. The bloke looked almost like Benny Hill dressed as that stupid Salvation Army officer; all that was missing was the arse-about salute. He had a white cane in one hand and on a lead on the other was a pie-eyed, yellow Labrador bitch with a dopey, sloppy grin, a fat backside and a sagging fat stomach. If ever two ‘people' were made for each other, it was this pair.

The Beret stared straight through his sunglasses into Norton's chest. ‘That's not you is it, Hoppy?' he said.

‘No, mate,' replied Norton. ‘I'm Les. I'm the new caretaker.'

‘Oh!' Beret shoved out a hand hitting Norton in the chest. ‘I'm Burt,' he smiled. ‘I live in number three.'

‘Hoppy told me about you,' answered Les, shaking his hand. ‘I'm pleased to meet you, Burt.'

‘And this is Rosie.'

‘Hello, Rosie.' Les reached down and patted the old dog on the head. It gave a whine of delight, sensing Norton was all right. Wiggled its ample backside and wagged its tail.

‘Well, I suppose we'll be seeing a fair bit of you now, Les. When did Hoppy go?'

‘Yesterday.'

‘Oh!'

‘So I'll be looking after the place from here on in.'

Burt stared oddly at Norton, ‘You're a big lump of a lad, aren't you, Les?'

‘It runs in the family, Burt,' smiled Norton. ‘I take after me mother.'

There was a short silence with Norton still trying to contain his laughter, then Burt spoke.

‘Okay, then we'll be off. We have to do our shopping. Come along, Rosie. I'll see you again, Les.'

‘For sure, Burt. Anything you want, just knock on the door.'

‘Good lad. Good lad.'

Norton had to laugh as he watched Burt tap-tap-tapping his way to the door with Rosie at the lead. He even followed them to the door and watched them cross the street. Bloody hell, he chuckled to himself. What a classic. Still laughing, he went back inside and resumed his attack on the cockroaches.

Considering he wasn't getting paid for it, Les didn't do a bad job on his first day as caretaker of Blue Seas Apartments. After he'd cleaned out his flat, he went upstairs and downstairs with the yard broom, swept the side passages and the backyard then cleaned out the laundry and the storeroom putting all the old papers, tins and bottles in the Otto-bins. The old push-mower didn't seem in too bad a condition, so he gave it a couple of squirts of oil and mowed what little grass there was out the front. There were a few people in the street and he could hear noise coming from the girls' school, but the only movement at Blue Seas was two women with long, scraggly brown hair and long flower print dresses and sandals who came out, got in the old kombi and drove off in the direction of the hotel. They didn't return Norton's gaze and somehow they didn't look like rock musicians, so Les figured they must be part of the team in flat six.