Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker (2 page)

Norton stared at Warren impassively. ‘So how come you don't want to live in it?'

Warren stared back just as impassively. ‘Because I don't want to.'

‘But… wouldn't you be better off? A big, comfortable unit, you're the governor, come and go as you please. You could drag all your splurters back there and play your Terence Trent Darby and k.d. Lang CDs till you go blue in the face. What's —'

‘Let's just say I love living here in Bondi with Uncle Les.'

‘You… love living here, Warren?'

‘Yeah, it's tops. And you're a really wonderful, sensitive, new age guy, Les.'

‘A really wonderful guy, eh?' Norton continued to stare at Warren. ‘You're not starting to develop any homosexual tendencies towards the landlord by any chance, are you, Warren? Your office is just round the corner from Oxford Street.'

‘Homosexual tendencies? In other words, do I want to root the landlord?' Warren appeared to think for a second. ‘Let me put it to you this way, Les. If you were a sheila and it was raining dicks, you'd get hit with a flat vibrator
and
have to pay for it.'

Les nodded. ‘Fair enough. So porking the landlord's got nothing to do with it.' He reached under his Sunday paper and pulled out two opened letters addressed to Warren which Warren had left near the phone. ‘I don't suppose these would have anything to do with it either?' He jabbed an index finger at the letters. ‘Negative gearing, eight per cent reducible. And what's this fuckin' company, Steady Edwards and Associates? At this address?'

‘Oh, all right,' said Warren, snatching back the two letters. ‘Big deal. I formed a company, got hold of a deceased estate at the right price and hocked myself up to the arse to get it. And I'm still here at Chez Norton's paying rent. It's as simple as that. Drink your coffee and let me read my Sunday paper in peace.'

Les shook his head expressionlessly. ‘No, Warren. I'm afraid it's not as simple as that at all, old mate.'

‘What do you mean?' Warren eyed Les a little suspiciously.

‘What I mean is, Warren, you've kicked a giant, enormous goal here and the one being shafted is me.'

‘Shafted? How the fuck could anyone shaft
you
? You've still got your school money and your first pair of thongs.'

‘Well,' conceded Norton, ‘maybe not shafted so much. But I do have my own certain financial obligations to cover, plus my negative gearing. And I'm only getting a few nights here and there at the club now.'

‘What do you mean, your negative gearing?'

‘Namely you. One extremely negative boarder. So, in the light of due circumstances, I'm putting up the Clark Kent.'

‘Oh no!' howled Warren. ‘Not the fuckin' rent. You can't. I'm strapped to the boards as it is.'

‘Five bucks a week.'

‘No way. Not even five pesetas.'

‘All right. Well, what about a dollar a week? Surely you can afford a lousy fuckin' dollar?'

‘A dollar a month,' said Warren defiantly. ‘That's the best I can do. And that'll probably send me to the fuckin' wall.'

Les shook his head and stared disconsolately into his coffee. ‘And they reckon round here that I'm a hard man. I'm buggered if I know.'

Underneath, however, Les was quite pleased to think Warren had kicked a bit of a goal, and he was even thinking of loaning the high-flying advertising executive some money if he'd stretched things out too thin. Of course, this didn't mean Norton couldn't take some sort of a rise out of Warren in the meantime. The big Queenslander just had to. Warren on the other hand had a fair idea how Les would react. He was on a good thing staying with Les, and saving heaps, so he knew the landlord was entitled to give a bit of cheek at times. Nothing Warren couldn't ever handle, of course, and on this occasion he knew Les would have some sort of a go at him, so Warren made sure he had something to come back with.

‘You know, I tipped you'd put on some sort of drama over this, you big sheila,' said Warren. ‘So I've arranged something for you as a bit of a square-up. Something I reckon you'll love.' Warren's eyes seemed to narrow. ‘And it's all free, Les. Your favourite colour.'

Norton's eyes seemed to narrow slightly also. ‘Free? Like what, Warren?'

‘Les, how would you like a week in Hawaii? Over and back Business Class with Qantas, and a four-star hotel room in Honolulu, right on the beach at Waikiki? And all on the house.'

Norton's eyes narrowed some more. ‘Let me get this straight, Woz. A week in Honolulu, first-class accommodation and travel? And it won't cost me a zac?'

Warren nodded. ‘That's right. I'll fly over with you,
say goodbye when we land, then fly back with you a week later. I'll be staying out on one of the other islands.'

Norton continued to stare at Warren. ‘Isn't Hawaii part of America?'

‘That's right,' nodded Warren.

‘And after all that shit I went through in Florida, you're wanting me to go back there? That's it, Warren. Get fucked. And it's an extra five dollars a week like I said. Backdated to last month.'

Warren threw back his head and laughed. ‘I knew you'd still blow up. You're unbelievable. But that's the deal. And I'm going over next Sunday anyway.'

‘Next Sunday?'

‘That's right. It's a contra deal. Another agency owes our agency a favour and I happened to pick it up. A double ticket to Hawaii for a week, so I'm on my way next Sunday. Aloha and goodbye. Or see you later and I'm glad I ain't ya. Please yourself.' Warren resumed sipping his coffee.

Les continued to stare at Warren and absently took a sip of coffee too. ‘Did I tell you I know a cop in Honolulu comes from round Bondi?'

‘That fireman's mate who stayed here during the police olympics when his hotel stuffed up? I was in Melbourne on a shoot or something.'

‘Yeah. Mick Reinhardt. I was going to call in and see him on my way back last time, but all I ended up doing was ringing him when I changed planes in Los Angeles.'

‘I only met him for a little while on the last day he was here. But he seemed like a good bloke.'

‘He is,' agreed Les. ‘He said if ever I was in Hawaii to call in and see him and he'd look after me.'

Warren made a gesture with one hand. ‘Well, you can't say I didn't offer.'

‘I'll tell you what, Woz,' Les sipped his coffee before it started to go cold, ‘why don't we finish breakfast and read the papers and we can discuss the matter further when we clean up?'

‘Good idea,' said Warren, reopening the
Telegraph.
‘I was just getting into a good article on schoolgirls and sex.'

Norton shook his head. ‘Fair dinkum, Warren. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.'

‘Yeah, I know. But check these two blondes out in the softball uniforms.'

They took their time finishing breakfast and reading the papers. Les was glancing through different articles here and there, but mainly he was thinking about this free trip to Hawaii. Although he wasn't all that keen, the idea did have its good points — there wasn't a great deal doing at the moment, the weather had been pretty ordinary and a change of scenery would take his mind off things. Plus a blurb around Hawaii with Mick could be a bit of fun. After Mick had gone back, Les had found out a few things about him from some of his mates down the beach.

Les had got to meet him through a fireman and, like a lot of other blokes who get stuck for accommodation or whatever, he stayed at Chez Norton for a few days. He'd been nicknamed ‘Lionheart Reinhardt' from his surfing days in Bondi because he was afraid of virtually nothing. If the waves were twenty feet high Mick would be the first one out and without a wetsuit. If he was spearfishing and the water was full of sharks, Mick
would grab his speargun and fight a Bronze Whaler for a Morwong. Rock climbing, kayaking down rapids, riding mountain bikes, et cetera, Mick thrived on it. Fighting wasn't in his nature, but his father had been a boxer and shown Mick how to throw a left over the top, so if it came to a bit of organised fisticuffs Mick was in there too. He left Australia to travel the world surfing, but Hawaii was as far as he got, and he ended up joining the police force. Being one of those naturally fit blokes who didn't smoke and only drank lightly he got into other sports, which was how come he came back to Australia for the police olympics, and to see his parents, who had moved to the country.

Mick was about as tall as Les, though not as big in the shoulders and arms. He had brown hair parted roughly on the side, a square jaw and chin, and a thick nose, which had been bent a few times but never broken, set under a pair of buoyant hazel eyes. In the few days Les had got to know Mick, he found him to be one of those good-humoured, straight-up blokes you couldn't help but like. Les introduced Mick to some other cops he knew, put on a bit of a barbecue for him one day, and a good drink and rapport was had by all. So catching up with Officer Reinhardt of the Honolulu Police Department could be a bit of a laugh. Another funny coincidence — Hawaii had come up in conversation down the beach about a week ago. A very small-time crim from round and about had got caught with some okey-doke and several dud credit cards, so the judge gave him a short holiday for his troubles. It was rumoured, however, that the crim's ex wife, whom he'd brassed for just about everything when they got divorced,
had kicked some sort of a giant goal in Hawaii. In desperation the crim tried to get in touch with her for a snip, but she brushed him completely. Some of the blokes were trying to figure out who his ex wife might have been, but she came from somewhere round the St George area. A bit of an idea entered Norton's head, but he didn't bother to say anything.

By the time Les and Warren had finished breakfast and cleaned up the mess, Norton had made up his mind. He was sick of the weather, and moping around the house without the star boarder to have a mag to wouldn't be much fun. What did he have to lose?

‘Righto, Woz,' said Les, wiping his hands on a tea towel near the sink. ‘You've got me. I'm going to Hawaii.' ‘I thought you might,' smiled Warren. ‘You'd be mad to knock it back.'

‘Yeah, another week putting up with seppos won't kill me. And I s'pose I could do with a few more T-shirts.'

‘You'll have a good time,' winked Warren. ‘Hawaii's a good spot.'

‘It couldn't be any worse than bloody Florida.'

Warren explained one or two things, like the procedure with the tickets, the name of the hotel Les would be staying in and how they would be flying out at ten-thirty the coming Sunday morning. He didn't elaborate on where he'd be going or who he'd be staying with.

‘So what's doing tonight?'

‘Tonight, Woz? I might go down to the Diggers and get into a bit of Harlem Shuffle. I still reckon they do the best version of “Great Balls of Fire” in recorded history.'

‘You goin' on your own?'

‘Yes. And on foot.'

‘Annie's coming back later. She's got a girlfriend dead set fancies you. I reckon you'd be a walk-up start.' ‘Thank you, Warren. But at the moment I need another root like Australia needs more blowflies.'

‘Yes,' nodded Warren. ‘I noticed DD didn't take any prisoners during her short stay here. She was certainly some woman.'

‘You can say that again, Woz,' Les nodded back. ‘You can say that again.'

The afternoon went smoothly, as did the evening at the Diggers. The Shuffle pumped and Les boogied around by the bar with different blokes, their wives and girlfriends. There were a few overs but Norton was content to get horrifyingly drunk and get into the music. He also got a few laughs when he said he was off to Hawaii the following Sunday. Tony Nathan, the surf photographer, happened to be there and also happened to overhear that Les was off to Honolulu. So he arranged for Les to take a camera case over for a journalist who was over in Hawaii covering the Triple Crown surfing contest on the North Shore. He'd pick the camera case up at Norton's hotel. Les agreed, before staggering off into the night and home to bed.

The week at the club went as smoothly as usual, with nothing even remotely resembling a drama. The only thing Les had to put up with was George Brennan slinging off now and again that Les had turned into a jetsetting yuppie — Florida and Jamaica one minute, Hawaii the next. However, Les assured George, Price and anyone else interested that if the trips hadn't been
freebies he wouldn't be going within a bull's roar of Kingsford Smith Airport. In fact, Les was adamant his one trip away only made him realise that Australia was the best country in the world, despite the idiots running it. But Norton also added that anyone who would knock back a free a la carte trip to Hawaii would be an even bigger mug than George Brennan, hard as that was to imagine.

Before Les knew it, Saturday night, a few late drinks, and the week was over. He'd rung Mick, got everything he needed packed, and it was Sunday morning, and he and Warren were wearing jeans and T-shirts and in a taxi running a little late to catch Qantas F4 to Honolulu.

Naturally there was a slight glitch when they got there. A computer had thrown a wobbly, along with the baggage conveyor belt, so the bags were delayed going onto all the aircraft. But after changing some money they still had to wait on the plane, where they sat around like stale bottles of piss for an hour along with all the other passengers. However, after Les's last trip, upstairs in Business Class with plenty of room, no cigarette smoke and two obliging stewards to take care of you, was a breeze. Les read the Sunday papers, drank orange juice and chit-chatted now and again to Warren sitting alongside him, when, before he knew it, it was chocks away and they were soaring off into the wild blue yonder.

All up the eight- or so hour trip was a breeze. Les had a couple of cold beers to follow the hot towels then it was time for lunch: grilled fillet of scarlet perch. Warren opted for the lamb short loin with minted cucumbers. Then it was settle back, read a magazine or two before a Whoopi Goldberg movie, which you listened to
through decent headphones. The movie hardly seemed to finish when it was time for supper: spinach gnocchi with tomato and pimento sauce, followed by walnut tart. While they were eating and drinking Les tried to pump Warren for a bit more information about where he'd be staying, but all Warren would reply was that he was staying with a friend at a friend's home on the big island. He'd tell Les a little more when they compared notes on the flight home. Oh well, thought Les. Mine's not to be nosey, I suppose. Though Warren did seem to have this half-smug look on his face all the time that got under Norton's skin just a little. Before Les had time to think too much on this, he'd read the Sunday papers again, had a couple of coffees and it was time to buckle up once more as they descended into Honolulu. It was just after eleven-thirty Saturday night and they'd left on Sunday morning. Amazing how we do it, Les chuckled to himself as the jumbo jet's huge tyres squealed and they smoothly touched down on the tarmac.