Still Riding on the Storm

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Yeah. Fair enough, Les,’ replied Dicky. ‘But you did promise me.’

  ‘Mmmhh.’ Norton’s mouth tightened. ‘So when’s this brutal assault supposed to take place?’

  ‘Tomorrow. During my run,’ said Dicky. ‘All I want you to do, Les, is come out on my run with me and keep an eye on things. It only takes me about four or five hours. And I’ll give you a couple of hundred dollars.’

  ‘Forget about the money, Dicky,’ said Les. ‘It’s just …’

  ‘Yeah. I know what you mean, Les,’ said Dicky. ‘But fair dinkum, Les, I’m desperate. This bloke is an absolute drop kick. And I’m a lover. Not a fighter.’

  ‘True,’ Les nodded into the phone.

  ‘And I’ve seen you go off. You’d fuckin eat him without raising a sweat.’

  ‘Mmmhh,’ muttered Les, stopping to think for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you out this time. So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Ohh, good on you, Les,’ breathed Dicky. ‘Look. Just be at your place tomorrow morning. I’ll call round at nine in the van. Then come out on my run with me.’

  ‘All right, I’ll see you here at nine.’

  ‘Ohh, fair dinkum, Les, I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘Yeah all right. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Les hung up the receiver and stared at the phone for a moment. The Knee was a good bloke and Les did owe him a favour. But driving around town in a van full of hookers didn’t appeal to the big Queenslander one bit. Be nice if somebody sprung him. Oh well, thought Les. Just this once won’t hurt. And I don’t particularly like the idea of some gorilla beating up poor Dicky and stealing his run. Then again, it isn’t quite the done thing to go porking young women behind their boyfriend’s back. Though in The Knee’s defence, it does take two to tango.

  Les had the house to himself as Warren was up in the Blue Mountains with his current squeeze and wouldn’t be back till Monday night. Which was good because the fast-moving, advertising executive wouldn’t see him driving off on Monday morning in a bus or whatever full of poor scrawny-looking molls. Les finished his coffee then had a nap before cooking something to eat, ironing a shirt and going to the club. He said nothing to Billy or anyone else about the fight at the hotel and he certainly didn’t mention what he was doing in the morning for The Knee. Fortunately for both Les and Billy, it was another easy night at work. Les had a couple of beers with the team after work, then drove home, got changed, watched TV for a little while and went to bed.

  Monday morning dawned bright and clear over beautiful Bondi again and Norton was up at eight. After cleaning himself up, he strolled down and bought the paper then came back and got some eggs and coffee together. After a second cup of coffee, Les changed into a pair of black jeans and a black T-shirt to hide any blood that might get splashed around and his tan R.M. Williams Santa Fe’s in case he had to take out a knee cap or three, then settled back in the kitchen and re-read the paper. At two minutes past nine there was a knock on the door. Les put his sunglasses on, strolled down the hallway and answered it. Standing on the porch was a very relieved-looking Dicky wearing a crisply ironed grey button-down collar shirt tucked into a pair of neatly pressed black trousers, over a pair of shiny black casuals and he was marinated in Calvin Klein Obsession.

  ‘Holy moley, The Knee,’ said Les. ‘You look like you’re ready to take out Elle McPherson. And you smell like a drag queen’s bedroom.’

  ‘Well, what did you expect?’ said Dicky. ‘A pink suit with leopard-skin lapels and a red fedora?’

  ‘Actually I did,’ replied Les, noticing a white transit van double parked alongside his Holden. ‘Isn’t that what all the good pimps are wearing these days?’

  ‘Not this one,’ smiled The Knee. ‘Anyway, come and meet the girls and boys.’

  ‘Boys? Ohh Christ,’ howled Les. ‘You’re not running gigolos too, are you?’

  ‘Come on, you big prude,’ said Dicky. Les locked the front door and Dicky led Norton over to the transit van where he opened the back doors.

  ‘What the fuck!’

  Norton expected to find the van full of slaggy Filipino hookers and slicked-down, buffed-up young men in tight trousers and shirts. Instead, the back of the van was full of square-shaped bird cages, each with a neat pink cover with a name and address written on a small piece of paper pinned to it. They were on the floor, round the walls and hanging off the roof. There had to be at least thirty.

  ‘Hello girls and boys,’ said Dicky. ‘Meet Les. Our minder for the day.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ spluttered Les. ‘They’re fuckin bird cages.’

  ‘Right on, Les baby,’ said Dicky. ‘That’s what I do.’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘Yeah. I got all these old socialites and widows around Rose Bay and Dover Heights got birds in cages. And I take mine around and service them.’

  ‘Service them?’ said Les.

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded Dicky. ‘I leave one of my birds with theirs for a week. They root themselves silly. I get paid, the bird gets a root, the old sheilas are stoked that their little birds are having a good time. I get to keep any eggs. And everybody’s happy.’

  ‘And these old girls,’ said Les, ‘are happy to pay you for the loan of a canary or a budgerigar for a week?’

  ‘Too right,’ replied Dicky. ‘And plenty of chops, too. I run a high-class service mate.’

  ‘Be buggered,’ said Les, staring at the cages and noticing them rocking slightly.

  ‘And they’re not all budgies and canaries, Les.’ Dicky drew back one of the coverings and inside the cage was a beautiful little bird with white and black markings around its wings and a yellow crescent. ‘This is a yellow crescent cockatiel,’ said Dicky. He covered that cage and uncovered another little bird with a pretty little face and pink and black markings. ‘This is a rose coloured burke. And over there is a crimson-crested scarlet and a white-faced cinnamon cockatiel.’ Dicky covered the cage up. ‘The rest are pretty much budgies and lorikeets and that.’

  ‘They look frisky enough in their cages,’ said Les.

  ‘Yes,’ grinned The Knee. ‘The secret is peanuts.’

  ‘Peanuts?’

  ‘Yeah. I put ground-up peanuts in with their birdseed. It works like aviculturalistic Viagra.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ muttered Norton.

  ‘So you could say, Les,’ laughed Dicky, ‘I’m a low-life pimp with a bunch of hookers and gigolos who work for peanuts. How good’s that? And you’re my offsider for the day, which makes you no better than me.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ repeated Les.

  ‘Now you know why this prick wants to steal my run. It’s not just about knocking off his dopey girlfriend. It’s the easy money.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Les.

  The Knee stood back and closed the doors of the van. ‘Anyway Les,’ he said, ‘let’s get going. We’ll start at Watsons Bay and work back. It shouldn’t take us more than four or five hours. Even after dealing with this idiot.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Les. ‘Let’s get it over and done with.’

  They got in the front of the van, Dicky started the engine, then slowly and carefully drove up to Old South Head Road and on to Watsons Bay.

  Les didn’t say much on the way over. He was still a little shell-shocked at what The Knee was up to. Besides that, Les was watching for any cars making suspicious movements around them or trying to cut them off. Eventually they were past the old lighthouse and Dicky turned left. Halfway down the street he pulled up in front of a big old brick house with a brick fence out the front and a garden full of roses. A set of steps ran up to a frosted glass front door.

  ‘I might be better off waiting in the car,’ said Les.

  ‘Yeah. Not a bad idea, Les,’ replied Dicky. He got out and opened the back doors. ‘Now. What have we got here? One crimson-crested scarlet named Ramos for dear old Mrs Leibowitz.’ Dicky took one of the cages out and closed the doors. ‘I won’t be long, Les,’
he called out, before stepping over to the front yard and opening the gate.

  ‘Take your time, mate,’ said Les.

  Les watched as Dicky took the stairs and knocked on the door. It was soon opened by a beaming white-haired Jewish mother wearing a light blue apron round her waist. Dicky went inside and the door closed. Less than ten minutes later he was back in the van.

  ‘How easy was that, Les?’ Dicky smiled as he started the engine.

  ‘Beautiful,’ replied Les. ‘If the cage is a-rockin’, don’t come knockin’. So where to now?’

  ‘Next street on the left,’ said Dicky.

  They drove down to another big old house much like the other, only with small trees and native shrubs in the front yard. Dicky got out and opened the back doors again.

  ‘So what have we got this time?’ said Dicky. ‘Ahh yes. A plain yellow canary called Rose for sweet Mrs Antoniadis.’ Dicky took one of the birdcages, closed the van doors walked across to the gate and took the stairs to be greeted at the front door by another beaming woman, this time dressed all in black.

  After that Dicky would pull up in front of either a big house or an expensive-looking block of home units, take in another bird and come back. Eventually there were only ten cages left and Dicky had pulled up in front of a large block of home units in Dover Heights, not far from Military Road.

  ‘Fuckin Mrs Lanzinger,’ grumbled Dicky. ‘I got to go right up the top. And she rang me earlier to tell me the lift’s fucked. Great.’

  ‘You can do it, The Knee,’ said Les.

  ‘I got to.’ Dicky sniffed the air. ‘Dunno where stupid is, though. I thought he would have shown up by now.’

  ‘We’ve got a little while yet, Dicky,’ said Norton.

  Les waited in the van while Dicky repeated his usual procedure. Les was about to turn on the car radio when a dark blue Holden utility with a solid tow bar at the back pulled up in front of him. The utility went into reverse then backed straight into the front of Dicky’s van with a solid bump that jerked Les into his seatbelt. The utility went forward then backed into Dicky’s van again, this time a little harder, startling the birds in the back and rocking their cages. The utility went forward then stopped.

  Well, mused Les, I’d say this is our man. Better see what his problem is. Les got out of the car, stepped round the front and stood in front of the driver’s side. A moment later a dark-haired man wearing jeans and a grey T-shirt got out from behind the wheel of the utility. He was tall and sinewy and reminded Les of Vinnie Jones, the English ex-soccer player turned movie heavy. The passenger side door opened and a solid fair-haired man carrying a bit of beef got out wearing khaki shorts and a sleeveless green shirt. Both men looked at Les as if he had no right to breathe the same air as them, let alone be seen near them.

  ‘Hello,’ said Les cheerfully. ‘Having a bit of trouble parking your car, mate?’

  ‘No,’ replied the tall man, turning to his mate. ‘I thought I parked pretty good.’

  Les pointed to Dicky’s crumpled number plate. ‘You could have fooled me.’

  ‘Maybe you’re just easily fooled,’ laughed the man in the khaki shorts.

  Just then, The Knee appeared out the front of the home units. ‘Oh shit!’ he said, when he saw the two men.

  ‘Well, look who’s here,’ sniggered the tall man with dark hair. ‘Just the little tit I want to talk to.’

  ‘Hey Knackers,’ Les said directly to the tall man. ‘If you want to talk to him, you talk to me first.’

  The tall man’s face darkened. ‘And why the fuck would I want to talk to you, Shithead?’

  ‘Because I’m nice,’ Les smiled warmly. ‘And I’m a great conversationalist with an abundance of wit and charm. And just looking at you and your fat-arsed mate in the daggy shorts, I’d say if you two ever ran half-a-dozen intelligent words together, it’d set a record-paying quinella.’

  That was it. The stage was set, the insults had been exchanged. Now it was time for drama. The tall man nodded to his mate and they both advanced towards Les. Norton figured the best course of action would be to take the shorter man out first, then concentrate on the tall one. Les stood his ground and as the two men drew nearer, balanced on his left leg and with his right foot flicked out possibly the best front snap kick Les had ever thrown in his life. The toe of Norton’s Santa Fe landed perfectly in the shorter man’s liver, instantly crippling him. His eyes bulged out off his head, his mouth gaped open and he collapsed on the ground, barely able to believe the pain as the poison squirted out of his liver and pumped into his bloodstream. In almost one movement, Les belted the tall man with a left hook that tore open his mouth and caused a spurt of blood to drip all over his T-shirt. Les followed the left hook up with another, then another, then ended it with a punishing, short straight right that sat the tall man on his backside seeing stars, and plenty of them. Les looked at him for a moment and to make sure he wouldn’t cause any more trouble, slammed a Muay Thai kick across his jaw that almost took his head off. He sprawled out on his back, spattered with blood, totally unconscious. Satisfied the Vinnie Jones lookalike was out of the picture, Les turned to the man in the khaki shorts lying nearby and grabbed him by the front of his sleeveless shirt.

  ‘Okay, Boofhead,’ said Les menacingly. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Get fucked,’ was the tortured reply.

  ‘Get Fucked, eh,’ replied Les. ‘That’s a funny name. Your parents must have had a great sense of humour.’

  Khaki Shorts spat on the ground. ‘In your arse,’ he muttered.

  ‘I wish you were,’ replied Les. ‘I’d shit all over you.’ Les gave Khaki Shorts two quick punches in the face that had blood flowing from his nose in an instant. ‘Now listen Get Fucked, or whatever your name is, and I’m only going to say this once. Both you and your mate keep the fuck away from Richard. If you don’t, I’ll be back next time with a mate. And we’ll leave both of you in wheelchairs. You got that.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Khaki Shorts sputtered through the blood and pain.

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Les angrily. He gave Khaki Shorts another two smacks in the mouth which made him howl with more pain. ‘Look. I don’t know what it takes to get through to you, Get Fucked. But I can keep this up all afternoon.’ Les gave the fair-haired man another quick smack in the mouth.

  ‘All right, all right,’ moaned Khaki Shorts. ‘I got the picture. We’ll keep away from him.’

  ‘See, Get Fucked,’ said Les, ‘I knew you were a reasonable sort of bloke. So now I’m going to do you and your mate a favour.’ Les picked the fair-haired man up and shoved him into the passenger side of the utility, then closed the door. He did the same after picking up the tall man and propping him behind the steering wheel. Satisfied they wouldn’t draw any attention by being left lying in the street covered in blood, Les removed the keys from the ignition and jangled them in front of the fair-haired man’s face. ‘Seeing as you’re in not in the best condition to drive, I’ll put these where they’ll be safe.’ Just in front of the utility was a grate covering a stormwater drain. Les dropped the keys down the grate and returned to the fair-haired man. ‘They’ll be safe in there,’ said Les. ‘Get them out with a coat hanger. And in the meantime,’ Les smiled, ‘do have a nice day.’ He caught Dicky’s eye. ‘Righto, The Knee,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of Dodge.’

  ‘Yes let’s,’ replied a stunned Dicky.

  After a quick check of the two men bundled into the utility, Les got into Dicky’s van and they proceeded on their way.

  ‘Fair dinkum,’ said Dicky as they turned into Military Road. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that. You’re not a man, Les, you’re a fuckin android.’

  ‘Whatever, Dicky,’ said Les. ‘But all the froth and bubble’s over now. So you might as well take me straight home.’

  ‘Righto, Les. Your place it is.’

  Dicky drove off and before long they were parked outside Chez Norton.

  ‘Honestly Les,’ said Dicky, ‘I
don’t know how to thank you. You’ve saved my bacon.’

  ‘That’s all right mate,’ replied Les. ‘It was a hoot. And I’m only too happy to return a favour.’

  The Knee pulled two hundred dollars out of his jeans and offered it to Les. ‘Here mate,’ he said. ‘If that’s not enough, just tell me.’

  ‘I don’t want your money, Dicky,’ said Les.

  ‘Well, at least take a hundred,’ pleaded Dicky.

  ‘All right,’ said Les. ‘You can shout me a bottle of Gentleman Jack.’

  ‘Beauty.’ Dicky handed Les two fifties as Les opened the door and stepped outside.

  ‘Well, you’re sweet now, Dicky,’ said Les. ‘But if there’s any trouble, give me a call.’

  ‘Okay. But thanks, Les. I really appreciate it. And if there’s anything I can do for you, bit of plumbing or whatever, just let me know.’

  ‘I will. See you, The Knee.’ Les closed the van door and went inside, leaving Dicky to drive off and finish his run.

  Once inside, Les got out of his blood-spattered T-shirt and jeans, tossed them in the laundry and climbed into an old blue tracksuit. He got a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and stepped into the lounge. He was about to sit down when he noticed the answering machine was blinking. He turned it on and it was Buzzy.

  ‘Hey Les. It’s Buzzy. Give me a ring as soon as possible will you. It’s urgent.’

  Shit, thought Les, taking a good mouthful of water. I don’t like the sound of that. He had another sip of water, found Buzzy’s phone number and dialled.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Buzzy. It’s Les. I got your message. What’s up? It’s not the fuckin hotel, is it?’

  ‘No,’ answered Buzzy. ‘The pub’s all good. No one knows it was you and they sacked that bouncer. Apparently he’s a complete fuckin mug. In fact there’s a good chance Ronnie can sue the hotel.’

  ‘Unreal,’ smiled Les. ‘That makes me feel rather excellent.’

  ‘That’s the good news though Les.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s the bad?’

  ‘Ronnie’s got a cracked vertebra in his neck. It’s an old injury the hospital picked up when they X-rayed him.’