You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (8 page)

He parked his old Ford opposite the Florida Hotel and checked out the scene; there was hardly a soul around. The clear, early morning revealed a long golden strip of sand running from Terrigal to the rocks this side of Forresters Beach; Les judged it to be roughly nine kilometres there and back. He wrapped a sweat band round his head, did a few stretches and took off.

The sand at the water's edge was cool and firm under his feet, in no time at all he'd gone two kilometres and when he reached Wamberal surf club he was just starting to clap on the pace. With his lungs full of unpolluted fresh air Norton was going like a machine. An old, yellow labrador dog came down from somewhere and tried to run along with him but threw in the towel after a couple of hundred metres.

He sprinted over the rocks at Bob's Bay and across another short strip of sand till he came to a beautiful, sandy little cove, fronted by a crystal clear lagoon and surrounded by trees and grey, black rocks which he recognised from his local map as Spoon Bay; he stopped there and did a series of push-ups, sit-ups and squats. The sheer beauty of the quiet, secluded little beach got him in so he decided to come back later and do a bit of relaxed sunbaking. He had another quick look around and headed back to Terrigal.

He hit the beach opposite the Florida like a runaway express train, did a few more sit-ups with his feet hooked under a park bench then threw his track-suit on, bought a paper and headed home for a swim, a shower and some breakfast.

After eating enough bacon and eggs to bloat King Kong, Les sat around drinking cups of tea and reading the paper till he decided it was time to go to the beach. He grabbed a few pieces of fruit and a couple of magazines, tossed them in an overnight bag
along with a towel and a few other odds and ends, then locked the house up, jumped in his car and headed for Spoon Bay.

It was about 10.30 when he got there. He parked the car in a small parking area, got his banana-chair out of the boot then followed a leafy, narrow path full of frilly-neck lizards taking advantage of the early morning sun, down to the beach, which was completely deserted. He picked a secluded spot near some rocks, opened up the banana-chair and spread a large beach-towel over it. How good's this he thought to himself as he eased his big frame on to it and started to read. Peace and quiet.

He'd been sitting there about half an hour when he noticed a young couple come down the path and on to the beach. They had googoo eyes and were holding on to each other like a couple of limpet mines. They gotta be on their honeymoon, Les thought to himself. They had a little white silky terrier with a pink bow on its head with them. It saw Les, ran over and put its paws on the edge of his banana chair then gave a cute little bark and started licking Les's leg. Les laughed, picked it up and started rubbing it's belly. The girl came running over.

‘Oh, I'm sorry about that,' she said, picking up the dog and giving it a little tap on the nose. ‘Frosty, you naughty dog.' She was a pretty young thing, big innocent blue eyes and long blonde hair.

‘Ah, that's all right,' replied Norton. ‘I got an axe in the bag anyway if he'd have got out of control. Bull terrier is it?'

‘Frosty? Hardly,' the girl laughed.

‘If you don't mind me asking, you wouldn't happen to be on your honeymoon would you?'

The girl blushed slightly, ‘Why yes, how did you know.'

‘Oh, I don't know. I just guessed. Anyway have a nice day.'

‘Same to you. Come on Frosty.'

She ran off with the dog following. Les gave her husband a wave. He waved back then they spread out a blanket and lay there together arm in arm. They looked just like what they were, a couple of nice young suburbanites in love and on their honeymoon. Ain't love grand, thought Norton; then went back to perving on the crumpet in his magazine.

About half an hour or so went by. The soft, warm sunshine was starting to make Les a bit drowsy, he ate an apple, put down his magazine and had just closed his eyes for a couple of minutes
when a noise, coming from the path that led to the beach, attracted his attention. Four men carrying two eskys full of beer had walked on to the beach, each one was sucking on a can and they were obviously just out for a day on the piss and see how big a pests they could make of themselves. They each had on Stubbies, thongs, cut-down football jumpers and caps of various descriptions. All had tattoos on their arms and legs and one had a bushy black beard that made him look like he was leaning over a hedge. From his experiences around the Cross Les tipped them to be footballers from somewhere in the western suburbs. Well, I don't give a stuff who or what they are, thought Norton, looking at them disdainfully, as long as they leave me alone. He closed his eyes and drifted off into a pleasant, peaceful sleep.

About two hours later Norton's slumber was abruptly disturbed by the little dog yelping and the girl screaming.

‘What the fuck?' he said rising up from the banana chair and rubbing his eyes, he looked over to where the screaming was still coming from.

Two of the yobbos had the yelping dog and were passing it to each other like a football, the other two had hold of the girl. One had her arms pinned behind her back the other had undone the top of her bikini and was fondling her breasts and trying to kiss her; the husband was doubled up on their beach blanket clutching his stomach. One of the yobbos with the dog stopped for a moment to give the husband a vicious kick in the ribs.

Norton looked away for a moment and shook his head. I don't believe this, he thought. It's none of my business but what can you do? But as much as Les hated having his peace and quiet disturbed he also hated bullies. With a vengeance. He got up, threw his sunglasses on the banana chair and walked over.

One of the yobbos with the girl had just started to pull his shorts down when he felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned around to face a not too happy Les Norton.

‘Why don't you put the dog down and leave the girl alone?' said Les.

‘Why don't you get fucked?' was the drunken reply.

There was obviously no time for niceties. Les slammed a short right straight into his mouth — he gave a loud groan and slumped down on his backside spitting teeth. Two quick, deadly left-hooks dropped his mate next to him, a look of pain and
disbelief on his face, his nose spread across it like a squashed tamarillo.

Les turned to face the other two just as one tackled him around the waist from behind, the one with the beard ran up in front of Les and started punching him round the head. Les tucked his chin in, crouched down and picked up a handful of sand and flung it in the beard's face — he gave a curse and started rubbing at his eyes.

The other yobbo still had him gripped firmly round the waist. Les prised his fingers apart, grabbed four and bent them back till they broke with a sound like somebody snapping carrots. Before he could even get a scream out Les spun around and elbowed him across the jaw one way and then back the other. As he started to slump, Les picked him up under the armpits and smashed several bone crunching head-butts into his face. He let out an agonised moan and collapsed on the sand spattered in blood, completely out to it.

‘Okay, Whiskers,' said Les, turning to face the last one. ‘That just leaves you and me. On your feet, cunt.'

The beard rose slowly and started to shape up but his heart wasn't in it — he was absolutely terrified. He saw the sickening, bloody mess Norton had made of his three mates and his face went as white as a sheet, his eyes bulging out like dog's knackers. Like all bullies, they're keen to bash other people but as soon as the tide turns against them they shit themselves very quickly.

‘Give us a go, willya mate?' he pleaded in desperation.

‘Sure. I'll give you a go,' sneered Les. ‘Just like you gave me and her husband. You dirty weak prick of a thing.'

Two straight lefts zapped into the beard's face, followed by a short right and a left hook. Les was pulling his punches slightly, he didn't want to knock him out. Not yet.

Another two straight lefts and a right to the body, a little harder this time, sent him spinning backwards on to the wet sand. He stood there with his head bowed, trying to cover his face with his hands — he was almost in tears. Blood was pouring out of his nose and mouth into his beard and dripping on to the sand; it looked dreadful.

‘Now, Whiskers,' said Les, a vicious, sardonic smile etched on to his face. ‘Here's a little trick I learnt off a bloke from Bangkok.' He pivoted on his left foot, swung his right leg and
slammed the instep against the beard's right knee, smashing the joint. The beard screamed and fell on the wet sand, writhing in agony. Now he was crying.

Les stood over the top of him. ‘Now don't you go away, Whiskers,' he said, ‘cause I haven't quite finished with you yet.'

He walked back, picked up one of the eskys and tipped the ice and remaining cans of beer out. ‘Have a look at that,' he remarked, ‘not one bloody Fourex.' Taking it by the handle he returned to the beard, who was lying on the sand whimpering with pain and fear. He saw Les coming and tried to roll himself up into a ball. Les straddled him and swinging the heavy metal esky like a squash racket started belting him across the back and head with it — you could have heard the din and screaming at Norah Head. When Les was satisfied he'd had enough he took him by his beard and stuffed his head into the empty esky.

‘There you go, mate,' said Les happily. ‘If you're going to lay on the beach you've got to keep the sun out of your eyes.'

He turned from Whiskers and walked back to the young married couple — they were together on the blanket, she was cradling his head in her arms, tears staining her cheeks. He didn't appear to be hurt too badly but he looked very pale around the gills, like Marcel Marceau had just given him a make-up job. Their little dog was whimpering softly and licking at the husband's hands.

‘You two all right?' asked Les.

‘Yes I think so, thank you,' replied the girl between sobs. ‘I think we're more frightened than anything else. God, those men, they were like animals. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been here.'

‘You'd have got a bit more than you bargained for on your honeymoon, wouldn't you, love,' replied Norton, a cheeky grin on his face.

The girl started to smile a little through her tears. She was still minus the top half of her bikini; Les picked it up out of the sand and handed it to her.

‘Here you are,' he said. ‘You want to stick this on?' She had one of the best pair of tits Les had ever seen. They were like two, firm brown grapefruit, with nipples like tiny, succulent pink strawberries. ‘There's no hurry of course,' said Les, with the grin still plastered across his face.

Blushing with embarrassment, the girl stood up and with as much dignity as she could, wiggled into the top half of her bikini. Then she turned to Les. ‘Would you mind doing me up?' she said coyly.

‘Sure.' Norton's big hands were shaking a little but somehow he managed to take the strain and tie a knot. ‘I'll — ah, get my gear and give you a hand up to your car,' he said hoarsely.

‘Thank you.'

Les returned with his banana-chair. ‘If you two can make it to the path I'll be with you in a minute. I just want to check on our friends here.'

‘All right.'

The yobbos were all lying in broken, bloody heaps on the sand, still snoring soundly from a combination of drinking in the sun and the horrible battering they'd sustained from Les.

Now Norton wasn't a thief, a bit shifty maybe, but a thief, never. And he never would be. However, living in Bondi and working at the Cross the past year or two had taught him one thing. An earn is an earn and in this world you've got to get it where you can. So while he checked the boys out he relieved them of the contents of their wallets; they were just a team of mugs anyway.

‘Four hundred and sixty dollars' said Les, counting the money and putting it in his back pocket. ‘Not bad, not bad at all. It's a bone.'

With the husband's arm around his shoulder Les helped the newlyweds up to their car. It turned out she was Diane and he was Colin. They lived in Castlecrag but were spending their honeymoon at Diane's sister Sophia's house at Forresters Beach.

As they were getting into the car Diane turned to her husband, a big smile spreading over her face.

‘Darling, I've got a wonderful idea,' she said happily. ‘Why don't we invite Les around for dinner tonight? He could meet Sophia, too.'

‘Hey, that's a great idea,' replied Colin. ‘Come round for dinner and a few drinks, it's the least we can do. And Diane's sister is a marvellous cook, Les.'

Norton shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sounds all right to me,' he said.

‘Oh good. Look, here's the address.' Diane took a biro and paper out of the glove box, wrote it down and handed it to Les.
‘Come round about seven, have a few drinks first and we'll eat about eight. Okay?'

‘Sounds all right to me,' replied Norton again.

He shook hands with Colin, Diane gave him a kiss on the cheek and they were off with Diane insisting and Les promising that he'd be there at seven. What have I got to lose? thought Les, I'm very partial to a bit of home cooking and this Sophia might be all right anyway.

There was one other car in the small parking area besides Norton's. An irridescent green, HK Holden with twin exhausts, fatties on the back, tiger-skin seat covers and rev-head decals all over the windows. Not a bad looking old HK mused Les — then let all the tyres down.

It was about four o'clock when Les got back to Terrigal and he was in a fairly good mood considering what had happened. Even though what he had intended to be a day of peace and quiet had been disturbed, the $460 more than compensated for it. And there was still the evening to come.

He had two quick schooners at the Florida then decided he'd better get some drink to take with him that night. He found a bottle shop a short stroll from the hotel, went inside and rang the bell on the counter.