The Day of the Gecko (5 page)

‘Always, Susie.'

‘That was one of the best things to happen to me in yonks. You got under my guard with that massage. But, boy, it was worth it.' Susie kissed Les again.

Norton kissed her in return. ‘And I'm glad I bumped into you, too, Susie. In fact, I can't wait for you to get back from Melbourne. Especially now that you're rich.'

They had a bit of a cuddle and a tease. Les was rapt. Susie was pretty happy, too. It had been a good day and no better a way for two old friends to catch up again. Finally it was time to make a move. Susie wrapped the towel around her and headed for the en suite. Les climbed into his shorts and T-shirt.

‘I'll go round and get my car,' he said, ‘and pack up a few things I'll need while I'm here. By the time I get back you should be about ready to go. We got heaps of time.'

‘To tell you the truth, Les,' replied Susie, ‘I wouldn't mind leaving a bit early. Say, five. I have to meet somebody at the airport.'

‘Okay.'

Les gave her a quick peck, said he'd see her when he got back and let himself out. He heard the shower running in the en suite as he walked round the front and wouldn't have minded being in there helping out with a loof. In barely five minutes Norton was at the front door of his place.

The mess was still piled up in the kitchen, in fact, if anything, there was more, and Warren and Isola were home and having a root somewhere. But where? The stereo had been left on FM and was playing in the lounge so no one heard Les come in or start tippytoeing around. He looked everywhere, but couldn't find them. Then Les snapped his fingers. The most obvious place and he'd missed it. He tip toed along the hallway and put his ear to Warren's bedroom door. Inside he could hear this very faint squealing and a low, muffled moaning and groaning. Mmmhh, thought Les after a few moments, the rooting seems to be getting very low key. I can't see our two star-crossed lovers lasting till Saturday at that rate. Oh well, who gives a stuff anyway? I'm out of here. Les listened for a moment or two more, then walked down to his room and started throwing the things he thought he'd need in a large overnight bag. He tossed in some T-shirts, socks, gym gear, stuff to wear at work, shaving tackle, etc. Not a real lot; he was only staying at Susie's for six days, not leading an expedition up Mount Everest. Les was in an extra-good mood as he packed and sort of whistled
softly to himself. It was almost like going on a week's holiday, and bumping into Susie like that would put a smile on anybody's face. Before long, he felt he had everything he needed, including the latest Paul Mann novel,
The Ganja Coast
.

Les was about to leave, when he felt a rumble in his stomach and a short, sharp fart slipped out. The heavy bit of early afternoon porking had loosened him up and Les suddenly felt in need of a crap. And better to have one here than stink up poor Susie's place. He walked down to the bathroom, only to find the door locked. From the sound of the way the water was hitting the bottom of the bowl, Les tipped it to be Isola. He waited a moment, then absently walked back into the kitchen.

Les peered around at the mess, the flies and the large box of Kleenex tissues sitting next to the kitchen phone, then farted again. The second one was a lot louder, hotter and smellier than the first one. Norton stared at the box of tissues, shrugged his shoulders and thought, well, why bloody not? After all, it is my house. I own it, and being the said owner I can do what I like. Can't I? Yes, Les, of course you can. Les took off his shorts and Speedos, climbed up and straddled his arse across the kitchen sink and shat all over the dirty dishes. About three good-sized turds. Shit! I needed that crap more than I thought, mused Les as he climbed back down. He wiped his date with the Kleenex tissues and dropped them on the pile of fresh, steaming turds. I'll bet they don't even notice it, thought Les as he put his shorts back on. Then he squinted his eyes. Christ! They'd have to. If Norton's two farts were bad, the crap was diabolical. It took the
flies around the kitchen tidy about two seconds to zero in on it for the picnic of their lives. Les didn't bother to wash his hands in the sink. But he did open the back door in case there were any other flies outside who might like to join their friends in the kitchen for a free smorgasbord. Feeling better, and lighter, Les tip toed into his room, got his bag and crept quietly out the front door. The bathroom was still occupied as he left.

There was a parking spot just out the front of Susie's, so Les didn't bother to use the garage. He eased his old Ford ute in behind a white four-wheel drive, entered the security door outside, knocked on Susie's, waited a few moments, then decided to let himself in.

Susie was sitting on a footstool near the TV in the comer, talking to someone on the phone. She'd changed into black corduroy jeans, boots and a thick, red-check hangout shirt. In the lounge, a tan leather jacket was thrown over a suitcase; it might have been summer, but Susie
was
going to Melbourne. She gave Les a quick wave. Les winked back, put his bag down next to an overnight bag that looked like it was full of CDs, and sat on the lounge. There was what sounded like a nice CD playing softly. Kind of Santana without the screaming guitar, and no vocals. Pleasant, cruisy music. Les settled back, listened to the music and half-earwigged Susie on the phone. It sounded like a woman called Carol. Finally Susie hung up.

‘Oh, boy. That was my sister. Can she talk! I see you brought your stuff.'

Les nodded.

Susie smiled. ‘One more phone call.'

Les watched her dial and settled into the music playing. It was still very laid-back, but good. From snatches, he could hear Susie was talking to some bloke called Joe. Les felt like going over and rattling through the CDs to see just what was there, but felt it might not be too prudent with the landlady in the room. Finally Susie got off the blower.

‘I gotta meet that bloke at the airport.' She looked at Les. ‘So how's things?'

‘Good,' said Les. ‘I'm stoked having somewhere nice to stay while all that rattle's going on round my place. Plus it's good I can do an old china plate a favour at the same time.'

‘Does Warren know you're staying here?'

Les nodded happily. ‘Yeah, I left him a message in the kitchen.'

‘Good.' Susie got up, sat on the lounge next to Les and gave him a bit of a cuddle. Norton had to smile. ‘Now, no bringing any low molls back here. And no parties.'

‘I was thinking of ringing this Albanian I know in the Cross and shooting a couple of pom videos while you're away. Is that okay?'

‘Just as long as there's something in the whack for me.' Susie gave Les a bit of a clip over the ear. ‘No. I trust you.' She looked at her watch. ‘We got a bit of time. You feel like a coffee or something?'

‘Not so much a coffee,' answered Les.

‘Okay then. How about a nice cup of lime tea?'

‘Sounds . . .'

Les was about to finish when Susie pushed him to his feet. ‘Hey, Les,' she said, moving him over to the
sliding glass door. ‘That's those two Russian blokes I was telling you about.' Les got a quick glimpse of two men walking slowly along the footpath. ‘Quick, into the kitchen.'

Les followed Susie into the kitchen and they looked through the thin curtain, half drawn back on the kitchen window. In a moment, two men in grey tracksuits, carrying fishing rods, came crunching up the pathway. One was taller and older than the other, very jowly and thick-chested — a bit like Boris Yeltsin but with scrubbier, slightly darker hair. Les tipped him to be around fifty. The other man was younger, around thirty, same dark hair with a lean, brooding face that seemed to match a lean, fit-looking body. He appeared to move and walk with a brisk, almost military style. The older man fumbled for the key to the front door, said something in Russian to the younger man, then they let themselves in and tromped up the stairs.

Susie turned away from the window. ‘That's them,' she almost whispered.

‘So what?' shrugged Norton. ‘They just look like two blokes gone fishing to me. What's the big deal?'

‘Wait till you see old Maca out the front. He'll tell you about them.'

‘Old Maca?'

‘Yeah. Macabee. He's an old Russian Jew sits out the front. Likes to keep an eye on things. He spits and curses at them. When they've gone past, of course. He told me they were nogoodniks.'

‘All right,' conceded Les, ‘I'll keep an eye on them. If they get out of line, I'll shoot the both of them. If they've got any fish, I'll put them in the deep freeze.'

‘Do that, Les. And put your big boofhead in there as well. We'd hate to have what's left of your brain overheat.' Susie smiled up at Les and rubbed her hands together. ‘Now, how about that cup of lime tea?'

‘Sounds good to me.' Les sat in the kitchen and watched as Susie got the kettle and things together, while the same CD played in the lounge.

‘Hey, that's not a bad CD playing, Susie,' he said. ‘Who's that?'

‘The Rippingtons. “Kilimanjaro”. It's not bad is it?'

‘Yeah. It's kind of boppy cool. I like it.'

‘There's another three there besides that.'

‘I'll tape them for sure.'

The lime tea sitting in his cup looked exactly like piss and didn't taste much better; kind of bitter-sweet and almost undrinkable, even with a dollop of honey. Les wished he'd had coffee, although Susie seemed to be enjoying hers. They nattered on for a while about this and that. Susie said there was a number next to the phone where Les could get in touch if he wanted to and she'd ring now and again herself.

Before long it was time to go. Les took Susie's bags and carried them out to the car. To avoid confusion and any trauma, Les decided to let Susie punch in the numbers on the security system.

The traffic was a little heavier than Les had expected and it was getting on for 5.30 when they pulled up at the domestic terminal. Susie seemed a little anxious and was in a hurry to get out of the car, considering her flight didn't leave till seven.

‘Do you need any help?' asked Les. ‘I can go and get you a trolley.'

‘No, it's all right.' Susie grabbed her suitcase and handbag and slung the bag of CDs over her shoulder.

Les adjusted the strap a little and gave her a quick but affectionate kiss. ‘I'll see you when you get back.'

‘Sunday night, Les.' Susie gave Les a quick peck in return. ‘You know where that number is if you need me in Melbourne.'

Les grinned. ‘No worries,' he nodded.

Susie turned and hurried for the door. As Les got back in his car he noticed a dark-haired man in jeans approach Susie as she walked inside. He said something to her briefly, then took her overnight bag and was gone. Les nodded once more. Yeah, I didn't really think you'd need me to help you with your luggage, Side Valve, old pal.

Norton drove to Bondi Junction, got a park in Bronte Road, then walked down to one of those Low-Cost places and got a dozen ninety-minute cassettes. He was about to have a freshly squeezed orange juice when he bumped into a couple of blokes he used to play football with that he hadn't seen for a while. They'd just won some money at the TAB and were going over to Billy The Pigs for a steak and a few beers. If Les wanted to join them, they'd shout. Not being a man to knock back a free feed and happy to catch up with a couple of old mates, Les did just that. Consequently it wasn't getting any earlier when Les got back to Susie's and all the parking spaces were gone out the front. Les cruised down the driveway, hit the buzzer and the security door creaked and rumbled open in its own sweet time. Susie's garage wasn't the biggest in the world but with a bit of twisting and
turning, Les was able to get the old ute into it and a minute later he was inside the unit.

He stacked the dozen bottles of Toohey's long necks he'd bought when he left The Pigs into the fridge, then unpacked his clothes and hung them in Susie's wardrobe alongside her dresses and jackets. I wonder if there's anything in there might fit me, he mused. Les shook his head. No, I doubt it. And I don't like her colour sense all that much anyway. Some of her handbags aren't bad though. He grabbed his towel and shaving gear and headed for the shower.

Susie's bathroom was about half as big as Les's with a frosted, glass shower cabinet, separate bath and a toilet. Like the kitchen, it was spotlessly clean with a few indoor plants and little, fluffy women's do-dads here and there, plus jars of cotton buds and dried flowers and things around the bathroom sink and mirror. Les had a shave, then changed into a pair of jocks and a plain white T-shirt. He got a beer from the fridge and stood in front of all the CDs. He was tempted to get into the music straight away, but he had all week and there was a programme about old American gangsters he wanted to watch on SBS, plus they were having a repeat double-header of
KYTV
. Norton switched the TV on and settled back.

By the time they'd finished Les had knocked off four beers and he was starting to yawn and there was no way he was going to watch the late movie on SBS —
The Revenge of Grudnar the Crab Shelter
— a tormented drama of conflict and intrigue in a seventeenth-century Icelandic fish factory. Les switched off the TV and went into the bedroom. He switched on the lamp
behind Susie's bed and pulled the curtains shut tight.

He cleaned his teeth and let go a couple more yawns, then climbed into Susie's bed, switched off the light and closed his eyes. The bed was comfortable, so were the pillows, and Les felt pretty good. So what's on tomorrow? he thought as he began to drift off. Nothing really. Train in the morning, tape music most of the day and work that night — if you could call it that. Les was lying there happily when something made him open his eyes. Susie's big poster of the universe was luminous and you could see all the constellations and galaxies quite clearly against the wall in the darkened room. It was almost like standing out in the countryside on a crystal clear night and it was quite fascinating. Les stared at it for a while and before long he was drifting along somewhere in the cosmos himself.