The Day of the Gecko (26 page)

‘No, no sheilas, JD,' said Eddie, ‘just three blokes. And I think their juices might be a bit dried up by now.'

‘Oh, pooh!' said Gloves. ‘Count me salmon and trout with the donut punching. I'll leave that for the horses' hoofs, thanks.'

Then a familiar voice came from behind Gloves. ‘You blokes haven't got a set of industrial headphones in the boat, have you? Two hours trapped with this prick and I've got corns on my ears. He'd talk under ten feet of quicksand.'

‘Shut up, Price, you whingeing bastard,' chuckled Gloves. ‘You've never had so much fun in your life.'

Price ignored Gloves as he threw the line to Eddie and moved to the back of the fishing boat. ‘Hello, Eddie,' he said. ‘Hello, Les. Hello, Garrick. How are you? Everything go okay?'

‘Everything went according to plan, Price,' replied the major. ‘There might have been some slight structural damage to the baths, but that couldn't be avoided.'

‘Don't worry about it,' said Price. ‘How's thing's with you, Eddie? Everything all right?'

‘Good as gold.'

‘And you, Les. You okay too?'

‘Yeah,' answered Norton. ‘It's been . . . just wonderful.'

‘Good on you, mate. We'll talk about it through the week.'

‘Come on, let's get rid of these bodies,' said Eddie. ‘Garrick's got a train to catch.'

‘That's right,' said the major.

George and Eddie climbed onto the fishing boat and Les and the major began passing the bodies over. Gloves took them and lay them down on the deck next to a pile of old car batteries, gearboxes, chains and
rope. Price was just as curious as the others about the third body, but Eddie said he'd discuss it with him later on. George stayed on the
Splashdown
and Eddie got back in the rubber ducky. He'd take Les and the major back to the boatsheds, leave it there, and drive home in his own car. Then they all said their quick goodbyes. Gloves hit the motor on
Splashdown
and the big fishing boat burbled out to sea. Eddie got the motor on the rubber ducky going with one pull, spun it around, and zapped back towards Bondi Bay. From there, they just skimmed across the ocean in silence, except for the howl of the outboard and the bump and slap as the rubber ducky would hit a small wave. The wind had dried the sweat off around Norton's neck, but it was quite cool, making him almost sneeze a couple of times and he hoped he wasn't getting a cold. Eddie gunned the rubber ducky and they were approaching Bondi Bay in what seemed like minutes. Eddie went straight in the middle, slowed down about halfway and turned the boat right towards the boatsheds at the north end.

People had started to gather on Ben Buckler Point and there were fire engines, police cars, TV trucks and crowds of people swarming around the south end of Bondi, gaping at the gutted remains of Bondi baths, when they cruised quietly up to the ramp at the bottom of the boatsheds. Eddie gunned the boat up on a small swell, cut the motor and jumped out the front. The major climbed out the front after him. Norton jumped out over the left side straight onto a slimy weedcovered rock and went arse over head, straight back into the water.

‘Ahh, fuck!' cursed Les, as he clambered back on his feet, soaked to the skin.

‘Fair dinkum,' said Eddie, ‘fancy bringing you along. You boofhead great wombat.'

Even the major had to laugh.

‘Ahh, fuck it!' Norton cursed again.

They ran the rubber ducky up the ramp next to the other boats. Eddie told them to piss off, they were running late for the major's train. He'd remove the outboard motor and leave it in a 44-gallon drum of water in one of the boatsheds, then let the rubber ducky down. If anyone did happen to come snooping around they'd find nothing; especially not a warm motor.

‘Okay, Eddie.' The major gave him a quick handshake. ‘I'll see you when you come up on Wednesday. Well done, lad.'

‘Yes, sir. Well done.' Eddie snapped the major a salute and got one back. He turned to Norton as he started unbolting the outboard. ‘I'll ring you tomorrow, Les.'

‘Okay, Eddie. I'll see you then.' Les started up the stairs after the major.

‘Oh, and Les.'

Norton turned around.

‘Thanks, mate.'

‘Yeah, no worries, Eddie.'

Les had given the major the keys and, by the time Les had squelched up to the car, the major had cleaned most of the dust from his face and clothes with his T-shirt and changed into a clean grey sweatshirt he'd had in the blue canvas bag. Les would have liked to have gone home and done the same thing, but the
major had a train to catch. Les returned the major's bags to the back of the ute, got behind the wheel and, with his wet clothes soaking into the seat covers, headed straight towards Rose Bay, to avoid any traffic and sightseers and took a left at New South Head Road.

Not much was said on the trip to Central railway. The Gecko had gone all pensive and thoughtful or something, as if he was trying to put two and two together and it wasn't quite coming up the square root of sixteen. Norton, besides having a medium-range case of the shits, was just glad the thing was all over. And he never wanted to see another cup of coffee either. The major was a novelty and a bit of fun at first, but now Les would be glad to see the arse end of him. He just hoped the headlines in the morning paper would read
MUSLIM EXTREMISTS DESTROY FAMOUS BONDI LANDMARK
and that would be it. Bad luck about the four bodies they left behind.

They went past Edgecliff Station and approached the rise towards the Kings Cross tunnel. Yes, it had been a weird one, all right, mused Les. Who were those four blokes? He knew one was Boris. But what was he doing down there and why were they shooting at them? Probably, it was like the major had said and they'd blundered into a big drug deal or something. Surely they weren't after the other body? No, no way. Norton laughed mirthlessly to himself. Maybe they were. Maybe that was the FBI. There was an Australian connection there. The FBI hated Australians. Especially J. Edgar Hoover. He despised them. All because of an Australian called Harry
Bridges who was boss of the US West Coast Longshoremen's Union, and of what Harry Bridges did to the FBI at the Piccadilly Hotel in New York. He made them all look like dills. That could have been Jimmy Hoffa in the bag. He was a mate of Harry Bridges'. You didn't know that on your whiz-bang internet, Mark Prior, did you? You computer genius. Yeah, but my old man did. What a story, mused Les. What a night. What a dirty, stinken, rotten, low, forgetable bloody shitfight.

Next thing, they'd pulled up in almost the same place Les had parked when he picked the major up on Wednesday. Norton took the major's heaviest bag and squelched up alongside him to the Country Trains platform. Most of the water in Norton's clothes had soaked into the front seat of the car, but he was still awfully wet; especially his boots. They were still full of water and every now and again it would ooze through the lace holes or over the top and he'd leave a trail of soggy footprints. Plus all the fine dust, ash and grit from the explosion had been soaked or ground into him and Les was convinced there were some nuked cockroaches hidden on him somewhere. Norton had definitely seen better nights, but passengers and staff were very thin on the ground, so at least no one was staring at him when they walked up to the platform entrance where the major's train was leaving in about five minutes.

‘Well, Les, what can I say?' he smiled.

‘I don't really know, Major,' answered Norton, placing the major's bag at his feet. ‘But I've never been in, or seen anything like it before. Let me know the next time you're in Sydney, and I'll move to Perth.'

‘Fair enough. I think I can understand, lad. But, none the less, I would like to shake your hand once more before I leave.'

‘Yeah, why not,' agreed Les, ‘even though on page 88 of the Jack Gibson bible, Ken Loefler says, “Most of the trouble in the world today is due to the handshake without meaning”. I reckon this one's got some sort of meaning, Garrick.'

‘An admirable quote, Les. You're obviously a man of good taste and intelligence.' They shook hands for the last time and the major went to pick up his bag. ‘Oh, before you go, Les, do you mind if I have another look at that T-shirt? You didn't lose it when you went on your tit, did you?'

‘No, it's still here.' Les took the T-shirt from inside his vest and handed it to the major. Apart from a few smears of water across the plastic bag it was still in brand-new condition.

The major looked at the printing on the front. ‘Tharunka,' he said quietly. ‘That definitely was one of the university students' papers I saw out during the Vietnam War. Do you mind if I open it. Les? I think there's something printed across the back.'

Les shrugged an indifferent reply and the major pulled the T-shirt from its plastic bag and held it up. Printed across the back in blue lettering was
WATCH YOUR FISH AND CHIPS. THE PRIME MINISTER IS MISSING
.

Norton looked at it just as indifferently. ‘What sort of a clown would put a T-shirt like that in a body bag?'

‘Yes, what sort of a clown indeed?' nodded the major slowly. ‘Someone with a sense of humour, wouldn't you say? A bit of a joker, Les?'

‘Yeah,' grunted Norton. ‘A regular Rodney bloody Rude.'

‘Les?' asked the major. ‘Do you particularly want this T-shirt?'

‘Not really. I've got heaps of the bloody things.'

‘Okay if I have it?'

‘It's all yours, Garrick.'

‘Thanks, Les.' A whistle blew and the major picked up his bag. ‘That's my train. I'll be in touch.'

‘All right, Major. I'll see you again some time.'

The Gecko ran for his train. Les turned and squelched his way back out to the car; only with a limp this time. He didn't tell anyone, but when he fell out of the rubber ducky he'd tom his arse on barnacles. The cuts hurt like buggery now and they'd hurt a lot more when he put iodine on them back at the flat. Plus it looked like he
was
getting a cold. Norton let out two horrible sneezes and spat on the ground. Yes, he was getting a cold all right. He wiped his fingers under his nose and flung that on the ground as well. Jokers with a sense of humour, Les snorted, as he opened the car door and climbed onto the soaking wet front seat. If there was anything funny about tonight, you can root me.

Robert G. Barrett
You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids

You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids
is the book that launched Les Norton as Australia's latest cult hero.

Follow Les, the hillbilly from Queensland, as he takes on the bouncers, heavies, hookers and gamblers of Sydney's Kings Cross, films a TV ad for Bowen Lager in Queensland and gets caught up with a nymphomaniac on the Central Coast of New South Wales.

In one of the funniest books of the past decade you will laugh yourself silly and be ducking for cover as Les unleashes himself on Sydney's unsuspecting underworld.

 

Robert G. Barrett
The Real Thing

Les Norton is back in town!

It all began in
You Wouldn't Be Dead For Quids
... And now there's more of it in
The Real Thing
.

Trouble seems to follow Les Norton like a blue heeler after a mob of sheep.

Maybe it's his job.

Being a bouncer at the infamous and illegal Kelly Club in Kings Cross isn't the stuff a quiet life is made of.

Maybe it's his friends.

Like Price Galese, the urbane and well-connected owner of the Kelly Club, or Eddie Salita who learnt to kill in Vietnam, or Reg Campbell, struggling artist and dope dealer.

But, then again, maybe Les is just unlucky.

Robert G. Barrett's five stories of Les Norton and the Kelly Club provide an entertaining mix of laughter and excitement, and an insight into the Sydney underworld; a world often violent and cynical, but also with its fair share of rough humour and memorable characters.