‘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.
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.
The Day of the Gecko Page 4
