Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas (17 page)

Billy looked blank.

‘BSA Bantam.'

‘BSA Bantam?'

‘Fuckin' oath.'

‘Why would he write that?'

‘Come on and I'll show you.'

Fit and all as he was, Billy had trouble keeping up with Les who was taking the stairs six at a time to the storeroom.

‘I didn't bother to show you this before,' said Les, as he opened the door. ‘I didn't think it was worth it.' Billy blinked around in the dusty gloom of the storeroom as Norton pointed to the old motorbike standing near the wall. ‘There, Billy. What's that?'

‘Jesus! An old BSA Bantam. Where did that come from?'

‘It belonged to Jimmy, the bloke in that flat. Old Hoppy told me he was restoring it. Whatever those five mugs wanted is in that old motorbike.'

‘Christ! You could be right, Les.'

‘Fuckin' oath I'm right. That crowbar's still upstairs. I'll go and get it and we'll rip the thing to pieces.' Norton was about to make a beeline for the door when Billy grabbed him by the arm. ‘Hold on. Before
you go charging off like a bull at a gate, have a look at something.' He turned Les back to the motorbike. ‘Notice anything?'

Norton gave the little old BSA a once-over, wiggled the handlebars and ran his hand over the seat. ‘It's covered in dust is about all.'

‘Yes, Watson. But notice where there's no dust.'

Les had another look. ‘Round the headlight.' ‘Excellent, Watson.

Excellent. That headlight has either been wiped clean or replaced.' Billy peered into the headlight. ‘There's no bulb, but I'm certain there's something else in there. My dear fellow, whatever it is we're after is in that headlight.'

‘You could be right,' smiled Les. ‘But we won't bother trying to unscrew it.' There was a small piece of rusty pipe lying on the floor next to some old paint tins. Norton bent down and picked it up. ‘Stand back, Holmes,' he commanded, then swung the pipe and smashed the headlight. Glass tinkled on the floor and inside the metal shell of the headlight. Les scooped the shards of glass out with the piece of pipe. ‘You're right, Billy. There is something in here.' He pulled out a clear, plastic bag that had been folded around several sheets of paper inside then squeezed around the inside of the headlight. ‘Shit! What do you make of that?'

Billy looked at the rolled up plastic bag. ‘Dunno. But it's too dark in here. Let's have a look inside your flat.'

Les locked the storeroom and they went back to his flat, where he took five sheets of foolscap paper from the plastic bag and lay them out next to the kitchen sink.

‘Well, what the fuck do you make of that?' asked Les.

Billy looked at the papers and shook his head. ‘I'm buggered if I know,' he answered slowly.

The sheets of paper were numbered one to five and consisted of typewritten text and drawings and diagrams something like Les remembered from his futile days at high school when he tried to master chemistry and science
lessons. There were neat sketches of plastic tanks and tubes and something that looked like a moonshine still. Everything was numbered and seemed to be laid out in instructions.

Across the top of page one was printed in capital letters: PREPARATION OF BETA-PHENYL ISOPROPYLAMINE IN 5 KILOGRAM AMOUNTS. On the pages were strange words like: isopropic acid, phenylamine, acetic acid and other things.

Norton peered at the pages and shook his head. Billy was doing much the same thing only he was scratching his chin.

‘Well, what do you reckon, Billy?' asked Les.

Billy shook his head. ‘Buggered if I know. It might as well be a Chinese newspaper.'

‘Yeah. And what's Beta-Phenyl Isopropylamine?'

‘Don't ask me. Sounds like a railway station in Wales.'

They continued to scan the pages of drawings and odd scientific-sounding names when Billy snapped his fingers and looked directly at Norton.

‘Hey, Les! What do bikies like?'

‘I dunno,' shrugged Norton. ‘Gettin' pissed. Gettin' into fights and gang bangs. Onions or whatever they call them.'

‘Yeah. And what else?'

Norton had to think. ‘I know, they don't mind a bit of Lou.'

‘That's right. Speed.'

‘I reckon those blokes we just had the stink with were half full of Lou Reed,' agreed Les, ‘'cause they came good pretty quick despite the flogging we gave them.'

‘Right. And did you see that thing on the news last week when the cops busted that bikie gang just outside of Melbourne? They nicked 'em in a backyard laboratory with twenty kilograms of home-made speed.'

‘Yeah. It was on the “7.30 Report”.'

Billy's eyes lit up and he gave Les a punch on the arm. ‘That's what this is. It's a fuckin' chemical breakdown of how to make speed! It's a recipe.'

Norton turned to the papers and went through page one again. ‘You're fuckin' right, Billy. Look at that: beta, phenyl, amine. I'll bet that's amphetamine. You're a bloody genius, Billy.'

‘That's why they killed that bloke. They were after this. And he's tried to leave a clue for someone else. This could be worth anything to those pricks. Hah!' Billy patted the papers on the sink. ‘Looks like you've got yourself a recipe for making speed, old son. All you need now is an industrial chemist and you're in business.'

Billy went into the lounge room and sat on the night-and-day, leaving Norton in the kitchen staring at the five sheets of paper. What he was thinking was anybody's business.

‘So, what do you intend to do?' Billy called from the lounge room.

‘Dunno,' answered Norton absently. ‘I'm buggered if I do.'

‘I'd burn it if I were you. The less you have to do with that shit the better.'

‘Yeah, you're right,' agreed Les. ‘It is bad news. It's no better than coke or smack.'

‘Yep. That's right.'

Norton continued to peer at the sheets of paper for a few more moments before folding them in the plastic bag and putting them in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘You fancy another mineral water?'

Billy looked at his watch. ‘No, I'd better get cracking. I promised Lyndy and the kids I'd take them to the pictures this arvo.'

‘Okay. I'll walk back up to your car with you.'

Les didn't have to thank Billy for backing him up in the fight, as they laughed and joked their way back to the station-wagon; that went without saying. But he did thank him for coming over when he needed him, although that more or less went without saying either. Les said he'd be back home through the week, he'd ring him and start training with him. In the meantime, still
say nothing to anyone about where he was or what had happened here. Billy gave Les a wink. That went without saying also. Billy tooted the horn leaving Les standing outside the hotel.

Back in the flat Les got the sheets of paper out and had another look; it still may as well have been written in Sanskrit, but at least he now knew what it was. Something Billy had said rang a note on the ever present cash register in Norton's head. And it wasn't ‘burn it'. Norton folded up the papers and hid them in some clothes in his ovemight-bag. He looked at his watch. It was still too good a day to be inside. Coogee Beach would be much better.

Les spent the rest of the afternoon on his banana chair reading, swimming and perving on the girls while a lot of strange thoughts floated around in his head. He had a T-bone, salad and chips at The Coogee Bay Hotel, washed down with four middies of Powers. It was eight o'clock by the time he drove back to the flat, got cleaned up and made a cup of coffee. He was debating whether to pack up and go home but the middies had given him a taste and he remembered his agreement with Warren. There was a choice pub barely a minute's walk away; why not get pissed?

Norton was in his jeans and a clean T-shirt walking out the front door when who should come tap-tap-tapping his way down the street carrying a bottle of brandy, glasses crooked, beret all over his head but old Burt and Rosie. Oddly enough it was the first of his tenants he'd seen all day. As he stopped to hold the door open, Les noticed that Burt was a bit wobbly on his pins, when he got closer he smelt like a box of rum babas.

‘Hello, Burt,' he smiled. ‘How are you goin' there, old mate?'

Burt swayed to a stop at the door. ‘Oh, hello there, Les,' he slurred. ‘How are you, my boy?'

‘All right, Burt,' replied Les, patting Rosie's head as the fat old Labrador wagged its tail and rubbed itself against his leg. Norton couldn't help but think the old dog looked just as pissed as its owner. ‘Been having a few, have you Burt?'

The old blind man stuck his chest out. ‘Just a little something for the spirit, my boy. For the spirit.'

‘Good on you, Burt. We could all do with a bit of spirit.'

‘Yes. And now Rosie and I are off to bed. It's... been quite a long day.'

‘Okey-doke. I'll see you later then.'

‘Good luck to you, my boy.'

Les stayed at the pub about an hour or so drinking steadily. It was Sunday, so it was a bit quiet; there were a few people around but nobody he knew. After a while, he could feel himself getting drunk and quite tired, so he decided to towel it. He'd drink what beer was left in the fridge, listen to the radio and have an early night. He wondered if the bikies would come back, but he couldn't see it. Not the ones they'd belted, anyway. Maybe through the week, but not tonight. If they did, he'd hear them pull up and he could hit the toe over the back fence, anyway. He finished his last bourbon and Coke and ambled very casually back the flats.

For some strange reason again, probably because he was eight parts elephant's trunk, Les decided to have another piss down the side passage of the flats. This time in the back garden. And this time he wouldn't be cleaning it up either. They could get another bloody caretaker for all he cared. Fuck 'em. Mr Norton was handing in his notice.

Norton was piddling away against the fence, not thinking about much, just enjoying himself in his drunken state when in the middle of it, he heard a strange howling sound. It was long and low and seemed to rise and fall, then stop and start again. It was one of the weirdest noises Les had ever heard, it sounded like a dog, but unlike anything he'd ever heard before. He cocked up
an ear, it was coming from somewhere inside the old block of flats. Les listened for a moment or two more. It appeared to be coming from old Burt's flat. He finished what he was doing, zipped up his fly and walked quietly round the side passage to flat two.

The light was on and although the curtain was drawn there was still enough room at the edge of the window to see inside old Burt's bedroom. It was about as sparse as his: an old, wooden double bed on a rug, a chair, a wardrobe, an equally old dressing table and a few cheap paintings on the wall. Old Burt's white stick was hanging on the end of the bed and there was a pair of trousers over the back of the chair. It was what was on the bed that made Norton's eyebrows furrow.

Rosie was on her stomach, tail up in the air, ears pinned down and her eyes darting towards the back of head. Her front paws were tied to the front of the bed with cord. Half drunk, Norton stared mystified at the old Labrador. Then, from somewhere in the bedroom, Burt materialised into view wearing his dark glasses, a shirt and nothing else. He climbed up on the bed, knelt behind Rosie then after shuffling around the howling started up again. ‘Owooo-ow-ow-owooo-owooo-woooh!'

This time Norton's eyes almost bulged out of his head. He gasped in a deep breath then had to look away. Ohh, no! I don't believe it, he said to himself, almost in a complete state of shock. He had another look and quickly turned his head away as the howling continued. Norton could believe it, all right. You dirty, filthy, old bastard, Burt, cursed Norton, the soft howling now ringing in his ears. You lewd, rotten, disgusting old prick. You complete arsehole. ‘
Owooo-ow-ow-owooo
!'. The howling continued.

Norton had another quick look then tremulously tore himself away from the window. No, bugger this, he cursed, I'm not copping that in my block of flats. He strode towards the hallway, determined to bang on Burt's door and put an end to it. Then he stopped. What could
he really do? Kick the old blind bloke and his dog out? Ring the RSPCA? Get in touch with the Guide Dogs Association? Maybe this sort of thing went on all the time. And what was that thing he and Warren had read in the paper the other week? Someone had caught a fieldhand in Zimbabwe having sex with a cow and the judge gave him three months. And some crazed disc jockey had read it out on air and some bloke had rung him up complaining about the severity of the sentence, and asking what was wrong? The disc jockey never knew when he might get cold himself one night and feel like slipping into a Jersey. What would he say about old Burt? Pretty much the same thing. How many people go out and get drunk, then get into a Blue? Norton was stumped. He shook his head, ran a hand across his eyes and went inside.

He had one more beer before going to bed — after that he needed something. When he finished he crawled onto the night-and-day and jammed his head into the pillow, positive he could still hear Rosie howling. Considering everything, he managed to get to sleep all right.

Eight-thirty the following morning found Les with the car packed, sitting on the wall of the garage opposite Blue Seas, sipping an orange juice. He was staring at the old block of flats and reflecting on the whole shitty, rotten scene of the last few days. What was going through his mind wasn't actually turning him on either. The bottom line was that his million-dollar investment, Blue Seas Apartments, was a dog all round. The only thing it had going for it, Sandra the artist, the girl he fancied and was going to sweep off her feet, hardly knew he existed. Besides that, she was pulling more tricks than Mandrake the Magician. There was a team of soapy hippies living on a pittance who wouldn't give him the time of day, plus an old blind drunk who was porking his guide dog. Norton gobbed towards the gutter and took another sip of orange juice. There'd been an obvious murder in one of the flats and by not reporting it to
the police and giving them the information he had, he could be charged with withholding evidence and conspiracy. That was a definite worry. Then he'd let himself be bonked by some sheila in a band who had to be the most cold-hearted moll he'd ever come across and he was lucky her boyfriend or whatever he was hadn't killed him. And then the rest of the band had turned on him like he was the greatest cunt in the world. On top of that, the place was falling down around his ears; he'd lost money already and was losing around another four hundred or so a week. But there was something else about the old block of flats he just couldn't quite put his finger on. Something very fishy — very fishy indeed. He took another mouthful of orange juice and continued to stare balefully at the old block of flats.