You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (34 page)

‘The Shinseing Maru,' he could make out clearly on the side — an Australian flag flew off the stern and a Japanese one was fluttering up near the smoke-stack. It's a dirty looking bloody thing, he thought, studying the rust and chipped paint through the binoculars. The decks were deserted but a sudden movement caught his eye.

A hatchway opened on the deck mid-ship, and out stepped an Asian seaman wearing a bulky, dark-blue, Mao type jacket. He moved cautiously over to the rail, glanced up and down the deserted deck then from under his jacket produced a parcel with a bright orange marker buoy attached, which he threw over the side of the ship. Norton watched it sail down into the ocean where it was momentarily lost in the foaming prop-wash at the ship's stern where it soon reappeared clearly bobbing up and down in the ship's wake. He watched it for a few moments then put the binoculars in his lap. ‘Hey Gary,' he said, ‘how about we try fishin' somewhere else for a while.'

‘You're kiddin' aren't you?' replied Gary, his jaw dropping slightly. ‘This is the spot here. This is where they're on.'

‘Yeah, maybe for you. All I'm gettin's a wet arse and it's cost me ten bloody bucks. What about just over there a couple a hundred metres near those seagulls. I want to have a go at some surface fish for a while.'

‘Ahh shit,' Gary started reeling in his line. He was protesting a bit but he was absolutely terrified of Les, not that Les would have done anything, but he'd also be able to tell the team down the Rex how Norton threatened to job him if he didn't do what he said. It all added to the drama. ‘Yeah all right,' he sighed.

‘I'll drive,' said Les.

‘You don't drive a boat. You steer it.'

‘Whatever. Come here and start the thing.'

Gary got the motor started and swapped positions with Les, moving up to the front. Les wrapped his huge, gnarled fist round the tiller and with a very disgruntled Gary facing him steered towards the marker-buoy roughly 300 metres in front of them.
Halfway there he slowed down and started pointing excitedly to Gary's right.

‘Hey, what was that?' he cried out, half rising from the seat.

‘What was what?' said Gary, turning towards where Les was pointing.

‘Over there, about 200 metres. The biggest bloody shark I ever seen. Christ.'

‘Where?'

‘Over there, can't you see it. Here, take the binoculars.' With one eye on Gary and another on the marker buoy bobbing up and down about 100 metres away Les handed Gary the binoculars. ‘Now have a bloody good look, Gary, 'cause if it's a shark I'm pissin' off out of here.'

Gary took the binoculars and started scanning the ocean intently, though he was half convinced Les was seeing things. About 50 metres from the marker buoy Les slowed down and swapped sides on the tiller. ‘Look there it is again,' he called out, ‘keep looking Gary you can't miss it.' With Gary looking the other way through the binoculars Les cut the motor and cruised right up alongside the small orange buoy roughly the same size as a beer bottle. With one sure swift movement he scooped the buoy up, with the parcel attached underneath, into the boat and straight into his huge overnight bag. Still peering through the binoculars Gary didn't see a thing.

‘There's nothin' out there,' he said putting down the binoculars and rubbing his eyes.

‘Yeah?' said Les. ‘Oh well maybe I was seeing things I s'pose. Anyway the seagulls have pissed off so those surface fish are probably gone too. We may as well go back to where we were. Here, you can drive.'

Gary took the tiller, looked at Norton and shook his head. ‘Steer Les. Steer.'

‘Whatever,' grinned Norton from the front of the boat.

They returned to their original spot, Gary dropped the kellick over the side and they resumed fishing with pretty much the same result as before — Gary pulling in a reddie about every five minutes, Norton scarcely getting a bite. Another 30 minutes or so went by with Les getting more than just bored and a bit restless by now; by now he was starting to get the shits. He could see he wasn't going to get any fish and he was also just about breaking
his neck to see what was in the package he'd fished out of the water so he decided to tell Gary it might be a good idea if he took him back to the boat-sheds. He was about to say something when he noticed a large, sleek power-boat come roaring up about 300 metres from where they were fishing, slow down and start systematically criss-crossing the area where Les had picked up the parcel.

The streamlined black boat looked like something straight out of a James Bond movie. It was at least 6 metres long with chrome rails running everywhere, a half cabin was towards the front and at the rear two monstrous Evinrude motors churned the water as they throbbed away in perfect unison. Two men appeared to be on board, one at the controls up front and another at the back searching the water with a pair of binoculars hanging on a strap round his neck.

‘Noisy bastards,' said Gary. ‘I wish they'd piss off. They're scaring all the fish.'

For about 20 minutes the two men searched the area with Norton watching them intently out the corner of his eye; eventually the boat stopped and they went into a huddle. The binoculars flashed in Norton and Gary's direction then the boat spun around and moved steadily towards them, slowing down about 10 metres away, where it slowly circled them — Norton waved casually, at the same time getting a good look at the two men.

Both of them were very grim faced. The one steering looked to be about 30, with clean-cut blond hair and wide shoulders; a pair of heavy mirrored sunglasses prevented Norton from getting a good look at his face but he noticed he had a rather large, bulbous type of nose. The other was in his late 40s, very stocky with thick, silvery-brown hair; for his age he was quite handsome and looked as if he could have been a sportsman of some type at one stage. Both men wore heavy, Thai-style gold chains round their wrists and neck; two large diamond rings sparkled on the older man's fingers.

‘Hey mate,' Garry called out to the man steering the boat. ‘Give us a bit of a go willya? You're scarin' all the fish.'

The two men stared at them expressionless, finally the older man jerked his head towards the open sea and the boat moved away. As it did Norton took a mental note of the name and number on the side. DZ983N ‘Senorita'.

‘Fuckin' gigs in their power-boats,' muttered Gary. ‘They give me the shits.'

‘Yeah,' replied Norton. ‘Anyway, listen Gary. I might get you to . . .' Suddenly there was a violent tugging on Norton's line. ‘Hey hold on, I got a bloody fish.' Excitedly, Norton started reeling in his line, coming up with a fair sized, speckly brown fish not unlike a groper. ‘There y'are, look at that,' he said happily, watching it flopping around the bottom of the boat. ‘At least I got a feed.'

Gary started laughing at the back of the boat. ‘You can't eat them Les, it's a wirra.'

‘A what?'

‘A wirra. They're no good. You can't even use 'em for bait.'

Norton was absolutely flabbergasted. ‘Are you fair dinkum?'

‘Yeah, fair dinkum. You can't eat 'em. They taste like shit.'

‘You mean to tell me I've been out here all morning, I finally get a fish and I can't bloody eat it.'

‘Sorry mate.'

‘Right, well that's fuckin' it.' Norton unhooked the fish, threw it back in the water, wound up his line and tossed it in the plastic box near Gary's feet. ‘Take me back to the bloody boat-sheds.'

Gary still couldn't help but laugh but in a way he was relieved Norton was going in; it was getting to be an embarrassment. ‘All right Les,' he said, starting up the motor. As they pulled off Norton noticed the black power-boat was still scouring the area.

‘Thanks anyway, Gary,' muttered Les as he jumped out of the boat with his bag in one hand and his sneakers in the other.

‘That's all right Les, anytime. I'm going back out though while they're still on. I'll see you later.'

‘Yeah righto, go for your life.' Gary spun the boat around and headed back out. ‘Hey, what about my ten dollars?' yelled Les. Over the noisy outboard motor Gary didn't hear him and just waved back. Great, thought Les. He climbed the stairs outside the boat-shed, got in his car and headed home.

He had a quick clean-up, then over a large mug of coffee he started to examine the parcel he had just appropriated. He removed the orange marker buoy and with a kitchen knife carefully cut through the thick plastic tape binding several layers of heavy, brown tar-paper. Underneath this was a heavy, black plastic bag securely bound with more thick plastic tape. This
covered what appeared to be a quantity of white powder in two more clear plastic bags heavily bound with more thick plastic tape. He gently cut through the tape binding the remaining plastic bag, opened it and sprinkled some out on to a piece of plain paper. Also inside the plastic bag was a short note.

‘M.Important. Our new phone and address. I will be in touch. T. 650 Plaza Centralos. La Paz. Bolivia. 838.8224.'

He wrote a copy of the note and put the original back in the plastic bag then started to examine the remaining powder on the piece of paper. Not being into drugs Norton wasn't quite sure what he had. If there was a joint going round at a party he'd have a toke on that but pills and powder didn't interest him. If anything they repulsed him, though he had a fair idea what he'd found.

The white, shiny powder wasn't really like a powder, more granulated not unlike a small version of Lux soap-flakes. Under the kitchen light it glistened noticeably and when he ran it between his fingers it had a slimy, silky feel about it. With his little finger he dabbed a bit on the tip of his tongue — it immediately went numb in that area.

‘Uh huh,' he said out loud, ‘the old Okefenoke.' He looked at it for a few moments rubbing his chin thoughtfully then placed it on a set of kitchen scales. So, I've got myself a kilogram of cocaine he thought. Now what am I gonna do with it?

He wrapped the kilogram of cocaine up exactly as he'd found it and hid it carefully in his bedroom; the amount he'd sprinkled out he folded up in a small piece of Alfoil he tore off a roll in the cupboard. He got a can of Fourex out of the fridge and sat there staring at it intently, thoughtfully stroking his chin the whole time. After about 20 minutes he picked up the phone and dialled a number.

‘Hello Price, it's Les. How are you?'

‘Les Norton the famous fisherman. How did you go son?'

Without mentioning anything about the cocaine Les told Price briefly what happened. When Price had finished laughing Les spoke.

‘Price, have you still got that contact at the Maritime Services Board?'

‘Sure. You want something do you?'

‘Maybe. All right if I give him a call?'

‘Sure. It's extension 066, ask for Grahame Keogh. Tell him who you are and tell him I said it's sweet.'

‘Okay. Thanks Price.' They chatted for a few minutes then Les hung up and rang the MSB, getting through almost immediately to Keogh.

‘Just hold on a minute,' said Grahame, ‘while I run that number through the computer. DZ983N, is that right?'

‘Yeah.' Les waited patiently on the end of the line.

‘You there?'

‘Yeah.'

‘The boat belongs to a Martin Reynolds. 16 Harbour View Crescent, Rose Bay. His phone number's 307 0552.'

‘Thanks a lot, Grahame. I owe you a drink some time.'

‘No worries. Say hello to Price for me.'

Norton hung up, thought for a moment then decided to leave it till 4pm before he'd ring Martin Reynolds. He vacuumed the house, made a chicken casserole and did a bit more cleaning up. Then it was 4pm. He opened a can of Fourex and dialled the number Keogh had given him.

‘Hello,' said a voice at the other end.

‘Yeah, is Martin Reynolds there please?'

There was a pause for a moment. ‘I'll see if he's in. Who's calling?'

‘Tell him it's a mate of his from South America. I'm sellin' bananas.'

There was another pause, longer this time. ‘Just wait there,' said the voice cautiously.

After a while another voice came to the phone, Norton could also hear the click of another phone being picked up. ‘Hello this is Martin. Who's this?' a voice said a little brusquely.

‘G'day Marty, old son. I'll get straight to the point. Did you lose something this morning?'

There were a few seconds of silence. ‘What are you talking about? Who is this?'

‘I'm talking about a little brown parcel bound with plastic tape and full of . . . well I don't think it's icing sugar.'

There was another silence. ‘I don't know what you're talking about. Who the fuck is this anyway?'

‘You don't know what I'm talking about, eh? How about T's new phone number and address in Bolivia. Is that any good to you?'

There was silence for a few more seconds. Norton could hear Reynolds's laboured breathing over the phone. ‘Who the fuckin' hell are you smart arse? What do you want?'

‘You know what I want shitbags. And you know what I've got. I'll ring you back at 9.30 sharp tomorrow morning. I'll sort it out with you then.'

Norton hung up abruptly and laughed to himself. He got another can of beer from the fridge and went out in the back-yard to relax on his banana-chair and wait for Warren to come home.

Warren arrived home from the advertising agency about six. After discussing the day's fishing with Les over a couple of beers he had a shower, then tore into the chicken casserole, almost matching Norton plate for plate.

‘You sure can put it away for a little bloke, can't you Woz,' said Les, running a slice of Vogels around his empty plate.

‘You're not a bad cook for a big hillbilly,' replied Warren. ‘I always said there was a bit of old sheila in you. I was expecting fish, though.'