You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (35 page)

Norton laughed then got up and made some coffee; pouring them a cup each. ‘You going out tonight?' he asked, as he sat back down at the table.

‘I was, but I might give it a miss. I had a bit of a big one at the Sheaf last night. I got a little chick does a few jobs for Penthouse I can take out though — if I wanted to.'

‘Yeah? Oh well, no good going out romancin' if you're not up to it.' Les poured some more coffee and eased himself back from the table. ‘Hey Warren, you like a smoke and a snort and that don't you?'

‘Ohh yeah,' replied Warren carefully. ‘I don't mind the odd drug now and again. Why?'

‘You want some coke?'

‘Some cocaine?' Warren gave Les a double blink.

‘Yeah. You want some? A chick owes me a favour, gave it to me up the Game the other night. I don't use it so here, you can have it if you want.' Norton took the foil package out of the top pocket of his Levi shirt and tossed it across the table to Warren. ‘I don't know if it's any good, though.'

‘Jeez thanks, Les.' Warren picked up the Alfoil and began to unwrap it. ‘It sure looks all right,' he said, squeezing some gently
between his fingers. He looked up at Norton and smiled. ‘I might have a toot now.'

‘Go for your life.'

Warren went to his room, returning with a small shaving mirror and a tiny pocket-knife. He took a healthy scoop of cocaine, placed it on the mirror and began chopping and crushing it up with the heel of the pocket-knife. Norton watched with intrigue.

‘So that's how you do it, eh.'

‘Yeah, got to crush all the rocks mate.'

‘And what would you jet-setting wombats pay for a deal of that?'

Warren stopped crushing the cocaine for a moment and looked at the Alfoil packet. ‘There's at least a weight gram there. About $300.'

‘Three hundred dollars for that?'

‘Oh, shit yeah.'

‘So a kilogram of that shit's worth 300 grand.'

‘I'm talking street price. A kilo'd probably cost 150 to 200 thousand. But by the time they step on it it'd bring half a million.'

‘What do you mean step on it?'

‘Cut it with Glucodin and Lactogen.'

Norton shook his head incredulously. ‘And they pay 300 bucks for that?' He shook his head again. ‘There sure are some nice mugs around. And I've just given you 300 bucks worth. I'm puttin' your rent up next week.'

Warren laughed. ‘It's just God's way of telling you you've got too much money.'

Satisfied the cocaine was crushed up finely enough, he formed the glistening powder into two white lines roughly the same length and size as a match-stick. He took a $20 bill from his pocket, rolled it into a tube and stuck it in his right nostril. ‘This is called having a toot, Les,' he said, bending his head over the mirror. Holding the tube in one nostril with his right hand and blocking the other with his left he moved the tube slowly along one of the lines, sniffing it all deeply into his right nostril. Then he did the same with his left.

Norton watched carefully as he sat up. Nothing happened at first then Warren's eyes seemed to bulge out like two pink
medicine-balls — he jumped up from the table and let out one mighty roar. ‘Yaarrrhh!'

‘Jesus Christ Les!' he yelled. ‘Where did you get that?'

‘Is it any good?'

‘Any good? It's unbelievable. I feel like I'm 8 feet tall and I'm a genius.'

‘I'll soon sort that out,' laughed Norton, getting up from the table.

Warren sprang round in front of him. ‘All right you big goose. Out the back now. Come on.' Warren started giggling and throwing punches at Norton; there wasn't a lot of power in them but they seemed to come from everywhere.

‘Christ, you are off your head.'

Within a matter of minutes Warren had cleaned up all the mess in the kitchen, made a date with the girl from Penthouse, got changed into his best clobber and was hovering in front of Norton ready to go out. He'd been moving that fast his feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground.

‘Well, I'm on my way,' he said, waving his hands around excitedly, his eyes still bulging out all over the place. ‘Don't bother waiting up for me, Mum.' He zoomed down the hallway almost leaving a vapour-trail. ‘Thanks for that Les,' he called from the front door.

‘You're welcome.' The door slammed and the last thing Norton heard was the tyres on Warren's Celica as he lay rubber halfway up Cox Avenue.

Les had a few cans, watched a movie on TV for a while then decided to have an early night. He slept quite soundly, though he did lie there deep in thought for a while at first. The numbers 150 to 200 thousand kept running through his brain.

He rose early the next morning and drove down to Centennial Park for a run, getting back about 8.30 to find Warren stumbling around the kitchen trying to make a cup of coffee. He was in an absolutely appalling state. His eyes were running like a couple of taps and his face looked like something you'd see on a pirate flag. Every few seconds he'd sneeze violently then sit there sniffing and mopping his eyes.

‘Have a good time last night?' asked Les.

‘Yeah,' croaked Warren feebly, sneezing again.

‘You look like a fuckin' shithouse.'

‘I feel worse.'

‘Good stuff that coke, eh?'

‘At-choo.'

About an hour later Warren managed to make it out the front door to work. At 9.30 sharp, Norton rang Martin Reynolds.

‘Hello Marty. It's your mate from yesterday. You want to talk a bit of business?'

‘Talk,' was the brief reply.

‘Right. Well you know I've got something of yours and if you're a real good bloke I might just let you have it back. And might I say it's very high quality stuff too. I had it tested last night and I'd say there's around 200 grand there — though by the time you vultures fill it full of powdered-milk and shit you'd be looking at closer to half a million.'

Reynolds didn't say anything but Norton could feel the hatred and venom over the line.

‘I'm a reasonable man,' continued Les, ‘and seein' as you're not a bad sort of a bloke I'll let you have it back for 75 grand. Fair enough?'

‘How about I tell you to stick it in your arse and come looking for you, smarty?'

‘Well, you can do that too, but I'll just turn it in to the cops along with your name and address and your mate T's in Bolivia and if that didn't fuck up your little operation I don't know what would. I'd probably get a reward.'

There was a tense silence for a few moments at the other end of the line. ‘All right arseole, what do you want to do?'

‘You know the old gun emplacement at the top of McKenzies Point Bondi, opposite Marks Field?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I'll meet you there at 4.30 sharp this afternoon. I'll be wearing a dark blue track-suit. You got that?'

‘Yeah. And I'm really looking forward to meeting you.'

‘Good. And like the man says on the TV: Bring your money with you.'

Norton hung up and stared thoughtfully at the phone for a few minutes. From the ominous tone of Reynolds' voice when he made that last remark he thought it might be a good idea to make another phone call.

‘Hello Price. It's Les. How are you?'

‘Good Les. What's up?'

‘Nothing really. Is Eddie there?'

‘Sure. I'll go get him.'

Norton waited patiently on the line while Price Galese went and got his number one hit-man. Eddie Salita.

‘Hello Les. What's your trouble, son?'

‘Hello Eddie. How's things? Listen, can you give me a hand for about 30 minutes this afternoon?'

‘Sure. Why, something wrong?'

‘Not really. I just gotta pick up some money off a bloke. There's a bone in it for you.'

‘Yeah. Much meat on it?'

‘Five grand.'

‘Something.'

‘Right. Well, be at my place at four this afternoon sharp. Bring a roscoe and I'll tell you all about it then, okay?'

‘See you at 4 o'clock Les.'

Norton rang Billy Dunne and arranged to meet him down Gales Baths at 11.30 for a light workout and a swim, and maybe a couple of beers at the 'Bergs afterwards. He didn't mention anything to Billy about the cocaine caper and left about three to go home and wait for Eddie Salita to arrive. Eddie arrived shortly before four.

‘Righto Les, what's the story?' he said, as he stepped briskly inside and seated himself comfortably on Norton's ottoman lounge. He was wearing running-shoes, black jeans, a camouflage T-shirt and a loose fitting black wind-cheater. With a green sweat-band wrapped round his head he looked like he'd just stepped off the cover of Soldier of Fortune magazine. As he eased himself back on the lounge, Norton noticed the .38 police special in a holster tucked up under his left arm and the .22 automatic in a smaller ankle holster bulging under his black jeans.

Norton gave Eddie a brief outline on what had happened and what was about to go down, including the amount of $75,000, and how he needed him in case Reynolds brought his mate with him and tried something shifty; if there was any gun-play Eddie could sort it out. He offered him the $5000 and told him there was more there if he wanted it.

Eddie laughed villainously, eased himself back further into the lounge and flexed his arms, stretching every wiry muscle
from his shoulders down to his finger tips. ‘Five grand's all right for half an hour's workout,' he said with a grin. ‘I'd have done it for you for nothing Les, you know that. But I may as well cop the five.'

‘Good on you Eddie. Thanks mate.'

‘Sounds like a piece of piss anyway if you ask me,' said Eddie rising from the lounge and zipping up his windcheater. ‘But if something happens and I do have to knock them we'll just toss them straight over the cliffs, get a boat and pick them up in the morning.' Norton nodded in agreement. Eddie smiled and threw Les an easy wink, but there was 12 months in the jungles of Vietnam in his eyes and business written all over his face. ‘Let's go then,' he nodded his head towards the door. ‘Your car or mine?'

They went in Eddie's Mercedes; five minutes later they were parked in Kenneth Street facing away from Marks Field.

With the kilogram of cocaine wedged down the front of his track-suit pants and his hands in the pockets of his track-suit top holding it, Norton set off across the windy park in the late afternoon sunshine for his meeting with Reynolds at the old gun emplacement. He was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and had a small straw hat with the brim turned down squashed on to his head; he wanted to disguise his face from Reynolds as much as possible and at the same time look inconspicuous. He may as well have had a red, neon-sign flashing above him saying ‘I am going to do a drug deal, then rob the nearest bank.' Eddie gave him a couple of minutes start, then checking there was no one around resembling Norton's description of Reynolds or his mate, moved off after him keeping to the steep edge of the park well to Norton's left.

A few minutes later an irridescent gold Buick Electra glided gently to a stop in Fletcher Street about 50 metres up from the park. Reynolds and his blond mate sat there quietly for a while before they got out.

‘You know exactly what to do?' said a grim faced Reynolds as he locked the car.

‘Exactly,' replied the other.

There was an old chipped wooden seat in the ancient gun emplacement; with his hands still in his pockets holding the cocaine Norton eased himself down on to it and spread his legs
out comfortably in front of him. A stiff summer nor'easter was gusting across Bondi Bay sending ‘the murk' from the sewage outlet underneath the golf links closer into the beach and almost blowing Norton's straw hat off as it whipped across McKenzies Point. Hardly any people were around. Even the late afternoon joggers were very few and far between, preferring to hang on the beach rather than run in the heat which had Norton in a sweat just sitting there as he waited for Reynolds and wondered where Eddie had got to. He'd scarcely had time to think on it when Reynolds and his blond mate appeared at the top of the steep grassy knoll facing the gun emplacement. They spotted Les, then after taking a good look around moved slowly down the grassy decline towards him. Both were wearing sunglasses and expensive Pierre Cardin track-suits. Reynolds was carrying a large brown-paper shopping bag folded in the middle. They looked quite sporty, Les thought as they got closer; Reynolds walked right up to him, the other stood at the entrance to the old gun emplacement.

‘G'day Marty,' said Norton pleasantly. ‘Nice day. Hello mate,' he called out to Reynolds' associate standing a couple of metres or so behind him. Reynolds' associate didn't say anything, he just stood there expressionless and flexing his muscles, trying his best to look tough. Incredibly enough, he had a small, thin cigar jutting out of the corner of his mouth. It was a pity the nor'easter kept blowing the ash and smoke away otherwise it could have curled up lazily under his eyes just like Clint Eastwood's in a cheap spaghetti western. Norton was terribly impressed.

‘So what's doing, Marty?' inquired Les. ‘I thought you might've come on your own but you've brought a heavy with you. Or is that just your bum boy? Doesn't really matter.'

‘You can cut the shit, smart arse,' said Reynolds. ‘You got the dope?' Behind him the other remained stonily silent but the muscles round his jaw were twitching considerably.

‘I certainly have,' replied Norton patting the front of his track-suit. ‘Is that the money is it?' he pointed to the paper bag in Reynolds' hand. ‘I'll just give it a quick count if you don't mind.' Reynolds reluctantly handed him the paper bag, Norton opened it and quickled rifled through the bundles of 20s and 50s; from his observation of the great stacks of money at the Kelly Club, Norton could tell there was $75,000 there.