The Day of the Gecko (6 page)

 

 

 

 

 

It was after eight the next morning by the time Les surfaced, got cleaned up and wandered into Susie's kitchen wearing his faded Levi shorts and a white T-shirt. He had woken up earlier and was lying in bed half asleep thinking how sweet it all was, when some bloke arrived in an old mini-van and started whipper-snippering the front lawn. And with Susie's unit being right at the front, the machine sounded like it was about a metre from Norton's head. There were plenty of goodies, sauces and pickles in the landlady's fridge. Les settled on some Roman focaccia, which he toasted with cottage cheese, sliced tomato and onion and a splash of salsa, and washed down with a plunger of New Guinea Blue. Peering out the kitchen window while the kettle boiled, he noticed it didn't look like too bad a day outside. A bit of a southerly blowing again with some clouds around; pretty much like the day before. Les took his breakfast over to the kitchen table and got stuck into it, and couldn't help but think again how sweet it all was.

Susie had a small radio on the table tuned to AM.
Les switched it on and while he was eating, all he seemed to get was these three miserable radio announcers ripping into greenies. It was one non-stop tirade interrupted only by commercials and Les couldn't believe so much venom could pour out of one tiny speaker. All some poor souls were trying to do was stop what's left of the rainforests from being turned into chopsticks and glossy wrapping for the Japanese so a couple of hundred beer-bellied truck drivers could keep their jobs. But the way these radio wallies had whipped themselves into a lather, you'd have thought the greenies were ruining the economy, raping women in the streets and throwing babies up in the air and catching them on bayonets while they ran around growing pot everywhere. When the announcers weren't howling for the communist, tree-hugging greenie scums' blood, they were mentally stalking the Minister for the Environment and wanting to hang him up by his heels with piano wire over a slow fire too. He was some kind of crazed, woozy heterodox just for holding his portfolio in the first place and having the unmitigated gall to argue against their carping, didactic bullshit. Norton gave the tirade about another minute, then shook his head and switched the radio off.

Communist, greenie, tree-hugging bastards. Les took a sip of coffee and turned around in his chair. Haven't me and Warren got a photo in the kitchen of Dick Smith with his arms around a tree? Bloody oath we have. Next to that one of the two dolphins jumping in front of the ship. And what's that goose call greenies? Watermelons? Green on the outside and red in the middle. I know what would be a good nickname
for him and his prima donna mates. Chinese Gardens. All sweet-smelling and nicely manicured on top, but full of shit underneath. Norton turned back to the now-silent talkback radio. No. What a man should do is write a letter to the paper about those clowns. But what could you say? And in a way you do have to feel sorry for them, I suppose. Take that first bloke. He'd be dirty on environmentalists because there's no way he could ever pronounce the word properly. And the other bloke. Well, let's be honest. If you were bom with a face like that you'd be filthy on mother nature too. And the last bloke? Shit! That's a hard one. I know. Greenies get arrested near leafy trees. He got pinched near a lavatory. Les, you're a dead-set genius. Norton raised his cup of coffee that was now starting to get cold. Trouble is, when it comes to writing letters, I'm flat out writing the date. And talking about the date — Les snatched a quick glance at his watch — I've got things to do, places to go and tapes to tape. And it ain't getting no earlier.

Les finished the last of his breakfast, then cleaned up as scrupulously as possible, hoping it would pass the landlady's muster when she came back from Melbourne. One thing, mused Les as he wiped the sink for the third time, no matter how I leave the kitchen, it couldn't look any worse than mine was when I left it.

When he finished washing and wiping, Les thought he might give Billy Dunne a ring and tell him what was going on. He wouldn't see his loyal workmate till Thursday night when they worked together and Billy might get a laugh from his fellow workmate's situation. Les walked into the lounge, sat down on the same
footstool as Susie had and pushed the buttons on the phone.

‘Hello,' came a familiar voice at the other end.

‘Hello, Billy. It's Les. How are you, mate?'

‘Les? Shit! Where have you been? I've been trying to ring you.'

‘You have?'

‘Yeah, so's Price. And what's up with Warren? Has he got asthma or something?'

Norton's shoulders gave a bit of a ripple. ‘No. He's . . .'

‘Anyway, don't worry about it. Are you at home now?'

‘No, I'm at Side Valve Susie's joint. I'm looking after it for her while she's away.'

There was silence on the end of the line for a moment. ‘Side Valve Susie? That hairdresser from Melbourne?'

‘Yeah. I'm staying here till Sunday while she's down there seeing her family.'

‘Aaah! That's where you've been.'

‘So what's all the drama anyway?' enquired Les. ‘You've been ringing me. And El Presidente himself.'

‘Yeah. And Eddie. And George.'

‘Fuck! What's . . .?'

‘You'll find out at work tonight. I'll be there and we're getting them all out by eleven. Earlier if possible.'

‘Shit! We're talking emergency procedures here, Billy. What's going on, mate?'

There was a silence on the end of the line for a moment. ‘Hello? This is a phone you're using, isn't it? What was your name again? Clarry, is it? I think
you've got the wrong number, Mr Clarry. Hello?'

Les nodded. ‘I think I get the picture. Okay, Gunther. I'll see you at the pickle factory.'

‘Auf Wiedersehen. Unt ebrytink gut for you and de family too plis.'

‘Yeah. Danke.'

Les hung up and stared at the phone. Well, I wonder what the bloody hell that's all about. Christ! It's been as quiet as buggery at the club lately. Nothing even like a drama, and we're not really doing anything illegal anyway. No money changes hands. It's all done on credit. As long as your credit's okay, nothing illegal happens to you.

Les stood up, drew back the curtain and looked at the trees running down Hall Street towards Six Ways. Ahh! It's probably nothing. And Price does like to bung on the odd drama now and again. Though I hope Eddie doesn't have to go out and kill some bloke. That can be a pain in the arse at times. Norton shrugged. Oh, well, whatever it is, I'll know tonight. In the meantime, I have to at least make an effort. Les put his training gear in his bag, secured the flat and headed out the front door for North Bondi Surf Club.

Seated on the comer of the brick fence out front was a dumpy little bloke with a pot belly and a florid, grumpy face half-hidden behind a pair of wide-framed glasses. He was wearing an untidy grey and orange tracksuit and shafts of silver hair spread from beneath a blue Roosters cap. He was looking around, checking the people out carefully without quite taking down passing numberplates. Les tipped him to be old Macabee.

‘Hello, boss' said Les as he walked past.

The old Russian was looking over Hall Street and stared up. ‘Boss? What is boss?' he said in a guttural growl. ‘I not boss.'

‘Sorry, mate. No offence. But you just remind me of a boss I had once when I worked in a pork factory.'

‘No boss,' said Macabee without expression. ‘Just livink here.'

‘Uh huh!' nodded Les. ‘Well, I'm looking after Miss Susie's flat for her while she's away.'

‘Yes, she tell me this.'

‘My name's Les anyway.' Norton offered his hand.

The old Russian held up his hand and it felt like squeezing half a kilogram of warm suet. ‘I am Macabee.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Macabee.'

Les was about to say goodbye or something before he got on his way when the front door opened and the two Russians Susie had pointed out came walking along the pathway towards them, wearing the same grey tracksuits, and carrying the same fishing rods and bags over their shoulders.

Les made eye contact with the older, bigger one. ‘Morning,' he said and smiled.

‘Good morning, my friend,' beamed the Russian. ‘Is good day, yes?'

‘Yeah. Not bad.' Les gave the other Russian a nod and got a curt, thin smile in reply. Both men ignored Macabee and Macabee seemed to be enjoying doing the same. ‘So off for a bit of fishin', are you?' asked Les.

‘Yes. Fishing is good, but —' the big Russian started
to laugh, ‘— most times ve are finishink up mit vot you Aussies say — the vet arse and no fishes.'

Norton laughed. ‘Yeah, that's about it, mate. A wet khyber and no Lillian Gish.'

The big Russian caught the eye of the other one. ‘Goodbye, my friend,' he said, and walked off roaring with wheezy laughter at his own joke.

‘They don't seem like a couple of bad blokes,' Les said to Macabee, curious as to what his reaction would be.

Macabee snorted, then spat on the ground. ‘Caechibi bastards!'

‘Well, I don't know where they come from. Mongolia, Chechnya, Chaebi or wherever. They're all Russians to me, boss.'

Macabee gave an impassive nod of his head.

‘Anyway. I have to get going. I'll see you, mate.'

‘Mmmhhh.'

Well, isn't he just a happy, tap-dancing little Vegemite, thought Les, as he strolled down Hall Street. You don't have to be Einstein to see what's going on. Wogs with their dopey bloody ethnic rivalries. He's crooked on those two because they're Chibi bastards or whatever. And they hate the Russians who hate the Chechnyans. It just goes on and on until they run out of people to kill. Norton shook his head. Why don't you try and be like that young Russian fighter, Macabee, you silly old goat, and leave it all back there.

After stopping for the paper and a freshly squeezed orange juice, Les was at North Bondi Surf Club, changed and ready for two hours of torture. Norton did pretty much the same as the day before. Only, instead
of the swim, he went for a paddle with ‘The T-shirt' to Wedding Cake Island and back. The T-shirt was a full-on clubbie and extra good in the paddling rort so the conversation was pretty limited as they stroked along, with Norton doing his best to keep up. Fortunately the southerly was with them on the return journey so Norton was able to get a bit of a mag going.

However, when they got back to the surf club, Les put the heavy bag on hold and settled for a few stretches and chin-ups and that in the exercise station next door.

Feeling in a pretty good mood after he'd showered, and seeing The T-shirt was such good company on the paddle, Les offered to buy him lunch over at Speedo's. The Shirt didn't have to start work till three and, being a bit like Norton, wasn't one to knock back a free lunch either. So over to Speedo's they went, where they knocked over salads, omelettes, more focaccia and plenty of Speedo's A1 coffee. Before long they were both bloated and it was time to get going. The Shirt thanked Les for the scoff; Norton said he'd probably see him down the surf club for some more punishment tomorrow.

By the time Les got back to Susie's unit and soaked his sweaty gym gear in the laundry, the day was starting to slip away. He poured a glass of mineral water and glanced through the
Telegraph Mirror
only to find Piers Akerman putting the boot into greenies too. Christ! What is this? thought Les. Open season? The way things are going, the greenies'll finish up an endangered species just like the poor bloody things they're trying to protect. And wouldn't the Japs and the
developers love that. Oh well. At least Akerman isn't as biased and bad-mouthed as those other creeps. Les closed the paper, finished his drink of water and went into the lounge room.

Now, where do I bloody start? he wondered, tearing the wrapping off a cassette as he stared at all the CDs; there were hundreds to choose from. Oh well. Just pick some out, run them through and see what I come up with. Susie's CD was a five-stack and you could tape and switch tracks off the remote. Before long, Les had the stacker filled and was spinning the CDs around, taping the tracks he liked best and writing the names down in a notebook.

With a bit of mucking around and a couple more glasses of mineral water, Les was able to get three ninety-minute tapes filled by late afternoon. It would have been nice just to sit back and listen to all the different music, but Les did some more stretches and a bit of yoga for his back while he was taping. Some of Susie's CDs were a bit iffy, but most of them were great. There were bands and singers he'd never heard of before; and if he had there were CDs and tracks they had out that he'd never heard. Billy Burnette, Lonnie Mack, Mark Collie, Bob Margolin. Ron Levy's ‘Wild Kingdom', The Smokin' Joe Kubek Band, Asleep At The Wheel, Nathan and the Zydeco Cha Chas. All good boogieing stuff. A track by Lou Reed, ‘The Original Wrapper', surprised him, as did one by Ian Hunter, ‘Big Time'. But one track did get Les. ‘Baby Likes to Boogie Like a Boggie Woogie Choo-Choo Train' by The Tractors. He played it three times in a row before taping it, then played it again. Les even put
down ‘Rescue Me' by Fontalla Bass because it reminded him of the time he met DD on the Gold Coast and they hustled to it. And a track by Sunrize Band from the NT, ‘Bugula Gun Bachira'. The whole album was good and the best thing was you couldn't understand a word they were saying. All up, not a bad way to put in an afternoon, and Les had barely scratched the surface of the CDs yet.

Outside, it wasn't much of a day now, with light rain on and off. People and families walked past out the front. Macabee seemed to vanish, then come back again. The two Russian fishermen returned; Les paid them scant attention but they didn't appear to be loaded down with too many fish. Les made a cup of tea and a bit of toast; he wasn't all that hungry and if he did get peckish later on, there were always plenty of sandwiches and things at the club. Before long, it was time for a shave and the big Queenslander was standing in front of the TV wearing a pair of jeans, blue T-shirt, matching windcheater and a pair of black grunge boots watching the last of the news on the ABC.