‘Like I said,’ continued Price. ‘There’re two bodies. One’s a boxer — or ex-boxer would be a better description. The other’s an ex-police inspector who was next in line to be Commissioner of Police.’ Price took a good sip of Scotch. ‘I’m not worried about the boxer so much. But if this other walloper shows up, it could turn out a bit nasty.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Billy. ‘Especially with all this forensic science and DNA strands and shit they got going now.’
‘Exactly, Billy,’ nodded Price.
Les took a glance at his watch. ‘Well, come on, tell us the story. You’ve got me in now. And I ain’t goin’ nowhere and there’s no shortage of piss.’ Les finished his bourbon, got up for another one making the others a drink while he was there, then sat back down again.
‘All right,’ said Price. ‘It was around Christmas 1967.’ He turned to his hitman. ‘You remember, Eddie.’
‘Yeah, I remember,’ said Eddie. ‘Just before New Year’s Eve.’ He looked at Price. Half shook his head and half smiled. ‘Yeah, I remember all right. You and your bloody ...’ Eddie was about to say something to Price but changed his mind and sort of quietly chuckled into his vodka. Price sort of smiled innocently over at Eddie then went on to relate what had happened back in the swinging sixties.
As Price had said, it was around Christmas 1967. A boxer called Bo Bo Brooks punched Price’s sister in an inner-city nightclub she was managing, because she politely told him to settle down a bit when he started playing up. Brooks was full of drink and all the goodies and didn’t just punch her. He hit with a combination, breaking her jaw, her nose, and putting a dozen or so stitches in her mouth; she wasn’t a very big woman and it was lucky he didn’t kill her. It all happened very quickly and the hero Bo Bo ran out of the nightclub and into the night before the bouncers could get their hands on him and see how he liked boxing with a couple of broken arms and legs; and quite probably more. However, Bo Bo didn’t run far. Price and Eddie caught up with him the following night holed up in Paddington, when it was more of a slummy suburb. After hitting him over the head with an iron bar Price held him while Eddie garrotted him. Then they rolled him up in an old oilskin and took him round to Price’s place, before taking him away somewhere for a not-quite-decent Christian burial. No one lamented Bo Bo’s disappearance and, as far as anyone knew, he skipped the country and went to America where he continued fighting under another name.
At almost the same time, two very heavy detectives in the gaming squad shot and killed a police inspector who was next in line to be head of police in NSW. The word got out he had some terminal illness and didn’t have all that long to live anyway and when he made the top spot he was apparently going to turn Queen’s evidence and give everybody up, including Price as well as any police or politicians involved. And then write a book before he went. This was going to be his legacy. The two cops involved weren’t complete dropkicks, just ruthless when it came to saving their own necks, plus their fellow officers’ — which was the way of things back in NSW during the swinging sixties and seventies. Price owed the two detectives involved a couple of favours and was on a sort of friendly basis with them; they smothered plenty of things for him and were never too greedy. They knew Price wasn’t all that keen on the late police inspector and jokingly rang him to ask if he knew a good place to get rid of the body? Price said to bring the body round to his place and he’d get rid of it for them. Not telling them he was getting rid of one himself, thus letting the two detectives think they now owed Price a big favour. They brought the body over, wrapped in an old oilskin, left some of the late inspector’s fishing gear on the rocks at Malabar where he used to like fishing, and the headlines read that he disappeared while fishing, was presumed drowned and eaten by sharks. So it turned out a very nice vibe all round.
At that time Price was very fit and used to play a lot of handball; mainly at Clovelly Surf Club, but also at the Bondi Icebergs. Being a kind and generous person and knowing at the time the Icebergs were scratching a bit for money, Price had offered to build the club a new handball court. It was all excavated and laid out with several tonnes of fill stacked to one side, ready to go in before the concrete pour the following morning. The fill was stacked in such a way that if you removed the wooden poles and gave it one good heave the lot would fall in without having to use a bulldozer. Price said this would be an ideal spot to hide the bodies for two reasons. Firstly, they’d never find them under all the rubble and concrete. And secondly, Price, having a great sense of humour, reasoned that it would be nice to be able to play a few sets of handball over the top of two dropkicks he hated. Afterwards, all the people Price used to play handball with never ceased to be amazed that either win, lose or draw, Price would always dance a little soft-shoe shuffle after the game on the ocean side of the handball court.
‘So that’s the story, Les,’ said Price, taking a sip from another Scotch and soda, then turning to Eddie. ‘It was a funny old night all right.’
‘Yeah, real funny,’ said Eddie. ‘We almost got sprung.’
‘Did we what,’ chimed in George.
‘Sprung?’ enquired Les.
‘Yeah.’ Eddie was a little serious. ‘We dragged the two bodies down to the handball court, while George waited in this old panel van we had. And we get sprung by these two wog skindivers in wetsuits.’
‘Fair dinkum?’ laughed Les.
‘Fair dinkum,’ repeated Eddie. ‘Actually I think they were in front of us. You got to remember, Les, it was pitch black and they just seemed to appear out of nowhere. They were probably out ripping off abalone and lobsters. They were carrying all their stuff with them in this big black bag and as soon as they saw us they dropped what they were carrying and pissed off. Naturally we weren’t bloody hanging around. We dumped the two bodies in the hole, hit the poles holding up the fill with a sledgehammer and we’re out of there in about two seconds flat before the dust even started to settle.’ Eddie started to laugh, along with George and Price. ‘Next thing, these two wogs started screaming at each other, and us, too, I think. I don’t know what they were saying, we were too busy getting out of there. The last thing we saw as we drove off was them still screaming and crawling over the rubble with torches looking for their diving gear. The poor silly cunts.’
‘Serves them right anyway,’ said Price. ‘Plundering the ocean’s resources like that.’
‘My sentiments exactly, Price,’ agreed Norton, raising his glass.
‘But of all the fuckin’ times to get sprung by a couple of mugs.’ Eddie shook his head and laughed. ‘It was a bloody crack-up, when I look back on it.’
There was quiet for a moment, then Les spoke. ‘So they’re still in there. And now we’ve got to get them out?’
‘Yes, unfortunately,’ said George. ‘Thanks to Waverley bloody Council.’
‘And you’ve got a plan, have you, Eddie?’ said Les.
‘Yep. I sure have.’ Eddie smiled and seemed to perk up. ‘And it’s a ripper.’
Les watched the little hitman rub his hands together and looked away. ‘I hate it when you do that, Eddie,’ he said.
Eddie continued to smile. ‘Mate, it’s all sweet. I got a bloke coming down with the explosives. We blow up the place. Grab the two bodies and throw them in a rubber ducky, which will come over from the boat-sheds. We transfer them to a game fishing boat, which another bloke’ll bring around and have waiting for us. He gets rid of them about twenty clicks out to sea. We take the rubber ducky back to the boatsheds. Leave it with the others. Then home to bed. Just in time for you to watch David Letterman.’ Eddie winked at Les. ‘Something like that anyway.’
‘Something like that, eh?’ Les looked at the evil glint in Eddie’s eyes and shook his head. Underneath, Eddie loved all this shit.
‘That’s right.’
‘And what about you, fat priest from the temple.’ Les turned to George. ‘Are you in on this, too.’
‘You betcha, Rambo,’ winked George. ‘I wouldn�
��t miss it for quids.’
Les turned back to Eddie. ‘And who’s this explosives expert you’ve got lined up?’
‘This is where you’re going to come in,’ interjected Price. ‘You’re staying at some sheila’s place, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, but...’
‘Well, that’s where we’ll put him.’
‘What? Ohh, you’re fuckin’ kiddin’.’
‘Well, it’s better there than at your place,’ reasoned Price.
‘My place!!?’ howled Norton. ‘Who said anything about him staying at my joint in the first place?’
‘Well, where else did you think we were gonna put him?’ said Price. ‘The Sebel bloody Town House? This is even better. No one’ll see him round there.’
‘Jesus, you cunts are good,’ protested Les. He got up to get himself another drink. ‘I’m supposed to be looking after a flat for an old friend, not holing up some IRA nutter. Or whatever he is.’
‘Actually, he’s an Australian,’ said Eddie, his eyes following Norton as he got his drink and sat down again. ‘Major Garrick Lewis. Ex-Army Intelligence. Special Ops. Shadow Company. And his nickname’s The Gecko.’
‘The Gecko,’ repeated Les, sourly.
‘That’s him. You’ll like him, too.’
‘I suppose I’ll bloody have to,’ said Les.
‘You’ll pick him up at Central tomorrow,’ said Eddie. ‘He comes in on the 2.15 train from Newcastle.’
‘What!!?’ Despite having the shits, Norton burst out laughing. ‘I pick him up from the 2.15 from Newcastle. What is this? Fuckin’ High Noon or something? Give me a break, will you.’
‘Look at the big sheila,’ grinned George. ‘He’s cracking up under the pressure already.’
‘Anyway,’ Eddie rubbed his hands together again, ‘that’s all you need to know for the time being. I’ll fill you in on any other details when The Gecko arrives tomorrow. We’ll have a talk round Susie’s place. In the meantime, why don’t we just enjoy a nice drink? I feel like a few now.’
‘Good idea,’ agreed Billy.
Norton stared at the floor and shook his head. ‘Yeah. Why bloody not.’
Price grinned and held up his glass. ‘Cheers, Les,’ he said. ‘Shit! It’s good to have you on the team.’
The team drank on with great gusto till all hours, swapping jokes, laughing about old times and present ones; and despite the shit that was about to go down, it wasn’t a bad drink all round. There was no shortage of laughs in a boozy who-gives-a-stuff atmosphere. But when they all sobered up in the morning, each man knew it wasn’t a picnic day at the beach they were planning and things could go wrong. Not to mention that the local constabulary frowned deeply upon people who blew up public or private property to remove bodies. Even if some of the said constabulary helped put some of the bodies there in the first place. They pulled up stumps around two, secured the club again and rang for two taxis; one to take George to Balmain, the other would drop the rest off at their various houses around the Eastern suburbs. The laughter in the second cab was a little subdued now, but they all managed to keep the bullshit going till Les got dropped off first. Have a good night’s sleep, Les. Don’t forget about tomorrow. Yeah, righto. I’ll be in touch.
Somehow Norton managed to stumble through the front door, then into Susie’s flat, and hit the correct security buttons. He fell out of his clothes, had a drink of water and cleaned his teeth and was feeling no pain when he fell onto Susie’s bed. But Norton knew he would more than likely be feeling it in the morning, as well as remorse. So much for his quiet, laid-back week at Susie’s, taping CDs. Now he’d have some ex-army mate of Eddie’s staying with him. The galloping major. The galloping gecko’d probably be more like it. Norton yawned boozily and switched off the bedside lamp. Before long, Susie’s map of the universe began to materialise on the bedroom wall. Les stared at it for a few moments, yawned boozily again, then laughed mirthlessly at this sudden and almost unexpected predicament. Ahh, who gives a stuff anyway. Next thing, Norton was lost in the cosmos again and snoring the sound sleep of the drunk; at times it almost sounded like the first stages of a Saturn rocket taking off.
Les had felt worse, but he’d also felt a lot better, when he surfaced around nine that morning and blundered from the bedroom to the bathroom, then into the kitchen. While he was standing there in his Speedos getting some coffee together, he figured he had about a warp five headache, so he blundered back into the bathroom, found what he was looking for and swallowed what he hoped would be enough to ease the nagging pain coming from somewhere in the middle of his head. After some fruit and cereal, toast and coffee, Norton felt at least good enough to start blundering through the day. The best thing to do, however, would be to have a run and sweat all the poisons and toxins out, then drink about a bucket of cold water. Les went into the lounge room and started putting on his Nikes while he thought about what he had to do today and what was going on. What did he have to do today and just what was going on again? Norton was probing through the boozy mists of his mind of last night at the club when the phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘G’day, Les. It’s Eddie. How are you?’
‘I’ve been better.’
Eddie gave a bit of a chuckle. ‘I know what you mean. Plenty of piss and a few laughs going round with the boys. It’s a recipe for disaster.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Norton. ‘And it’s lucky we don’t have to do it too often.’
Eddie took Norton’s subtle hint. ‘Yeah, luckily. Anyway, you know what you have to do today?’
Les nodded over the phone. ‘Yeah. 2.15, Aunty Vera arrives. And I see that she gets here safe and sound.’
‘That’s it. I’ll call round at three and we all might have a nice cup of tea. It’ll be good to see Aunt Vera again.’
‘You know where the place is?’
‘Yeah. You gave it to me last night. Jesus, your handwriting’s a bit rough when you’re full of ink.’
‘Eddie, I’m just on my way for a run. And I guarantee it’s gonna be a lot fuckin’ rougher than my handwriting.’
‘I’ll see you at three.’
‘See you then, mate.’
Les looked at the phone for a moment, closed his eyes and shook his head reluctantly; what he would have preferred was another two hours of sleep. Instead, he laced up his Nikes, got into a pair of shorts, a T-shirt and sweatband, locked the flat up and walked outside, ready for about an hour of misery.
The wall of letterboxes opposite the comer where Macabee had been sitting was just high enough to do some easy stretches. Les limbered up for a few minutes and had his head down most of the time, so if any people walking past took any notice, he didn’t see them. It wasn’t a bad day; sunny with a few clouds around and a light nor’-easter. Norton didn’t need any competition and he didn’t need to do it too tough; just sweat all the piss out mainly. One lap of Royal Sydney Golf Course would do fine. It was nice and flat and not all that long, then a quick swim afterwards and dry off back at the flat. Les had one last stretch, touched his toes a couple of times, then trotted gingerly off down Hall Street. He turned left into Glenayr, left again at Curlewis, bolted across Old South Head Road before he got squashed by two trucks and about fifty cars full of impatient drivers, then jogged off easily alongside the Golf Links towards Newcastle Street. Before long, Les had gone past Rose Bay and was grinding up O’Sullivan Road, appreciating any shade from the trees along the golf links as the sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes before it dripped off his chin onto his chest and arms. Then it was one more game of stuntman getting back across Old South Head Road, then back down Curlewis and across Campbell Parade before he pulled up at the bus stop near the start of Queen Elizabeth Drive.
After the run, Norton didn’t know whether he felt better or worse; all he knew was he felt glad it was over. He had a long, cool drink of water while he soaked his head under the tap. That did feel better, and now for a swim. As he stood up, Norton’s eyes wer
e drawn towards Bondi baths which he’d been thinking about at times during his run. He had a quick glance at his watch and noticed he still had plenty of time. Why not go over and give the place a quick checkout before I have a swim? See just what’s there. Plus it might be an idea if I show this major bloke that I at least know where the scene of the up-and-coming crime’s going to be and I’ve got half an idea what’s going on. Les wrung his sweatband out, had another drink of water and began walking down across the park towards the beach.
When he got to the promenade, Norton stopped at the end of the railing for a few moments next to where a couple of kids had chained their bikes. Behind him a couple of surfers were using the shower, other people were walking past carrying boogie-boards or the ubiquitous plastic bottle of mineral water. The tide was fairly low, the sky and sea were both a crisp, bright blue. Seagulls hung in the air, tankers cruised past out towards the horizon, people were either scattered across the white sands or out in the surf, taking advantage of a few small swells rolling in. The nor’-easter had picked up, spreading a slight bump over the ocean, but it was still a picturesque day, showing Bondi Beach at its near best. Les took it all in for a short while, especially two girls in bright, if extremely brief, bikinis proceeding up the path leading to Notts Avenue.
The first thing that hit Les when he got to the steps, apart from a freak with a Walkman who wasn’t watching where he was going, was a blast of thick, rancid air coming from the toilets, that made Les hold his breath. Ah, yes, you can’t beat a nice smelly brasco for style. And what a delightful contrast. A view of Bondi’s beautiful blue seas on one hand. And on the other, a smelly, rotten shithouse. Pooh! Les trotted up the steps, not letting his breath out until he reached Notts Avenue.
Walking towards the baths, Les noticed they looked clean and blue, but they were almost deserted; it would be lucky if there were six people between both pools. There was a sign on the wall, just under where the roof angles over towards the pool, BONDI PUBLIC BATHS. HOME OF THE BONDI ICEBERGS. VISITORS WELCOME. Beneath that, dangling forlornly over a brick balcony near the door, was another sign, HANDS OFF THE ICEBERGS. HOME OF AUSTRALIAN WINTER SWIMMING SINCE 1929. The sign, like the rest of the place, had a hanging-down look of defeat about it. As if 1929 had finally caught up. Or vice versa. Yep, mused Les, looking at the sign fluttering languidly in the breeze. I’ll bet a lot of water has flowed under the baths since then, so to speak. And a lot of schooners flowed through the Icebergs, too. Les strolled on past an alcove of Otto bins, the fibro roof falling in over them and the locked double glass doors of the club. A bit further on he passed a yellow besser brick wall with a few strands of rusty barbed wire on top, a locked high gate that evidently led to some caretaker’s place and came out at the park where Notts Avenue ended in a dead end and a small park overlooking the ocean. There was a vacant lot at the end of the wall and part of the handball court jutted out below where the baths area finished. A narrow, sandy trail led through some scrubby bush and weed down to the rocks and further on a set of steps began where Notts Avenue ended, going down to a pathway which meandered up to Mackenzies Point, then round to Tamarama Beach.
The Day of the Gecko Page 6
