It didn’t take long for Les to understand why Melbourne was said to be the best place to shop in Australia. As well as the enormous variety and the quality, the streets and footpaths were wide and level, making it a breeze to get around. He walked down Elizabeth Street and found where he had to pick up his car the next day, and on the way back stopped at a small art gallery where some black T-shirts with a colourful little devil on the front caught his eye. Les bought one for himself and one each for Warren, Grace and Clover. A little further on was a coffee shop specialising in fruit juices. Les took a seat and ordered a Brazilian Special. It was pink and delicious with a hint of ginger and mint. He had two. He roamed through a huge department store into the shirt section. The best ones were around two hundred dollars, yet they were all made in China. Someone must be cleaning up, mused Les and bought six at a clothes store on a corner where you paid for two and got one for free.
In the heat, Les drank more fruit juice then found a newsagency selling Sydney papers. So he had a bowl of won ton in a noodle shop and a read. He watched a busker in a turban going for it on some strange instrument in a wide boulevard with a statue of a purse on the footpath. He handed his camera to some Japanese tourists and got his photo taken in the middle of three skinny bronze statues of three weird men with briefcases. A few slices of ham and some potato salad from David Jones food hall, a perv and a takeaway coffee later, and Les couldn’t believe the day was shot. He had another fruit juice from a shop across the road from the bronze statues and went back to the hotel to put away his purchases and get out of the heat. His bed had been made and they’d restocked the bar fridge. Les opened a mineral water and started unpacking when the phone rang. It was Eddie.
‘Eddie. What’s happening mate?’ said Les.
‘Not much,’ replied Eddie. ‘I’m here. But I’ve got a couple of things to sort out. I’ll be about an hour late.’
‘No worries. This is the earliest you’ve been late for ages anyway.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Eddie. ‘So what have you been up to?’
‘Not much,’ lied Les. ‘Had a couple of drinks last night. Did a bit of shopping today. I’m hanging in ready for tonight.’
‘Good. We might have dinner at the hotel and I’ll tell you what’s going on then.’
‘Okay. So I’ll see you in about an hour. In my room?’
‘Yep. See you then.’
Les hung up and had a mouthful of mineral water. An hour, he mused. When I put all this away, I’ve got time for another swim. Les finished unpacking then put his Speedos and old shorts on and caught the lift down to the pool. Again he had it on his own.
Les flopped around just cooling off. When he’d had enough he went back to his room, showered and shaved then changed into his spare jeans, trainers and a yellow polo shirt. He put his ghetto blaster on and got some station playing golden oldies, and with Norman Greenbaum pumping out ‘Spirit in the Sky’, lay back on the bed and started reading Hell’s Angel. He was into a part about a fun-loving member of the club called Doug ‘The Thug’ Orr, who could snap a pair of handcuffs and shot his girlfriend through the head before they put him in the Napa Valley Madhouse, when there was a knock on the door. It was Eddie, wearing black jeans and a grey shirt with a button-down collar.
‘Hello mate,’ said Les. ‘Come in.’
‘Fuck! How hot is it?’ said Eddie stepping into Norton’s room.
‘Yeah. I’ve been hitting the hotel pool. You want a beer or something?’
Eddie shook his head and pulled up a chair. ‘I wouldn’t mind one down the bar before we have dinner.’
‘Suits me,’ said Les, sitting down on the bed.
‘So you met Perry,’ said Eddie.
‘Yeah. He doesn’t say much,’ replied Les. ‘What time’s he picking us up?’
‘Nine. Out the front.’
Les glanced at his watch. ‘We got plenty of time.’ He gave Eddie a thin smile. ‘So what’s the story?’
‘We’re going to sort Latte out in Fitzroy. It’s not far from here.’
‘Fitzroy? I was up there yesterday,’ said Les. ‘Whereabouts in Fitzroy?’
‘At a bookshop in Brunswick Street.’
‘A … bookshop?’ said Les.
‘Yeah,’ answered Eddie. ‘Called the Obelisk. It’s right up one end.’
‘I thought we were going to an art exhibition?’
‘So did I. But they’re selling a whole lot of rare books and stuff. Shithead’s going to be in there with a dodgy plan of Burley Griffin. I got the listings.’
‘Shit! Won’t somebody recognise us?’ said Les.
‘I got disguises,’ said Eddie. He peered quizzically at Les. ‘You look a bit worried, big fellah. What’s up?’
‘Oh nothing, Eddie. I was expecting an art gallery. That’s all. You know, more room to get around. A bookshop sounds a bit … poky.’
‘All the better,’ said Eddie. ‘I’ve checked this place out. Most of the action’s going to be in the front room. We just run in. Do the biz. And run out again. Easy.’
‘Yeah okay. If you say so, Eddie.’
Eddie looked at his watch. ‘Anyway. Let’s go and have a beer and a bite to eat. By then it’ll be time to go.’
‘Okay.’ Les stood up. ‘What I got on do?’
‘Sensational.’ Eddie followed Les and they got the lift down to the lobby.
The bar was roomy and bright and predominantly red and cream with red furnishings and a black and white mosaic floor. Windows on the left overlooked the arcade, the restaurant was on the right and the wooden bar faced the lobby area. Seated around the bar and tables was a small crowd of neatly dressed men and women. Eddie got two pots of VB and they chose a table with red velvet lounge chairs in a corner looking down on the arcade. They clinked glasses then took a sip each. Les tried not to appear trepidatious. But having to belt Latte in the bookshop had thrown him out. Ken the owner would have to be blind not to recognise him.
‘Okay Eddie,’ said Les. ‘Fill me in a bit more about tonight. And what are these disguises?’
Eddie rubbed his hands together. ‘Who’s got everybody shitting themselves these days?’ he asked Les.
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Les. ‘The taxation department? Marilyn Manson? Osama bin liner or whatever his name is.’
‘Right on, baby,’ said Eddie. ‘So we’re going in dressed as Muslim terrorists.’
‘We’re what?’ said Les.
‘We’re getting done up as Muslims. Perry’s got the Arab gear waiting for us in his garage. And two Groucho masks.’
Les stared at Eddie in disbelief. ‘Eddie. You are joking, aren’t you?’
Eddie took a sip of beer and looked directly at Norton. ‘Les. You can’t tell me, when Saddam Hussein sucks on a cigar in those horn-rim glasses and his moustache, he doesn’t look like Groucho.’
Les thought for a moment. ‘A bit,’ he conceded from over his beer.
Eddie raised his glass. ‘There you go. What did I tell you?’
‘So we’re going to run into the bookshop and bash Latte. Wearing tea towels on our heads and Groucho masks.’ Les closed his eyes. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Hey. We’re not going to bash him,’ said Eddie. ‘I’m going to cut his fingers off.’
‘You’re what?’ said Les.
‘Well, I got to get that pinky ring off his finger,’ gestured Eddie. ‘This is the quickest way. And while I’m at it, I’ll cut his other one off too. You just hold him.’
‘Shit!’
‘Besides,’ said Eddie, ‘if we give him a hiding, it’s only going to heal up. This is a little more permanent.’ Eddie smiled and wiggled his eyebrows. ‘See how Latte likes sucking on his lattes with a couple of Manly Warringahs missing.’
Les shook his head. ‘Eddie,’ he said, ‘you are a deadset evil little cunt.’
‘No I’m not,’ replied Eddie. ‘I’m a force technician.’ He finished his beer and nodded to the bar. ‘Your shout, dude.’
<
br /> Les got another two pots, Eddie went to the gents and saw the head waiter about a table on the way back. They drank their beers and talked about this and that. Eddie said there were a couple more things he wanted Les to do when they hit the bookshop; he’d explain when they were getting changed in Perry’s garage. They finished their beers and went round to the restaurant.
The head waiter, wearing a high-collared white shirt and black vest, was Tim. Tim was very friendly and sat them down at a polished wooden table near the centre of the restaurant, across from a section of curved windows overlooking Collins Street. The restaurant was almost full and softly lit, with tasteful furnishings and the same mosaic floor pattern as the bar. Next to where they were seated, a huge vase of flowers sat on a solid wooden table that doubled underneath as a wine rack. Les went for a dozen oysters and the veal cutlet on citrus risotto. Eddie had a dozen oysters and Moroccan spiced chicken on mashed potato with coriander salsa. They drank mineral water with their meal; no sweets, just coffee. The food was delicious and very filling with crispy bread rolls, and they were too busy enjoying it to say a great deal. But they did agree that although twenty-five thousand dollars was just a bet to Price, Latte Lindsey must be living in another world if he thought he could get away with dudding a member of Price’s family for even a postage stamp. Latte should have stuck to robbing people he knew. They finished their coffees, charged the meal to Les’s room then gave the waiter a twenty and caught the lift down to the foyer. They were there a minute when the BMW limo pulled up out the front. A porter opened the rear doors for them and they climbed in the back and drove off.
‘How are you, Perry?’ said Les.
‘I’m all right, Les,’ replied the driver, glancing at him in the rear-vision mirror. ‘How’s yourself?’
‘Good.’
‘Perry’s is only a few minutes over the bridge from here,’ said Eddie.
‘Righto,’ nodded Les.
Not a great deal was said in the limo. Perry and Eddie exchanged a few words. Les stared out the window at the passing cars and darkened buildings not having a clue where he was, except the water below when they crossed Queens Bridge must be part of the Yarra. They went under a freeway then down a long wide street flanked with neat houses, flats, small hotels and busy restaurants. They turned into a smaller street and pulled up in front of a wide cream-painted double garage under a red-brick two-storey house with an enclosed verandah. The garage door on the left swung up, the limo glided inside and a light came on when the door closed. They got out and Les had a look around.
Perry’s garage was neat and tidy with white-washed concrete walls. A double fridge sat in one corner, there were drawers and cupboards and a long white workbench ran along one wall beneath a tool rack. A meat hook hung from the ceiling and in one corner was a battered green punchbag. In the other parking bay on the right sat a blue Holden sedan with tinted windows.
‘Do a bit of bag work, Perry?’ said Les, nodding to the punchbag in the corner.
‘Perry used to be amateur welterweight champ of Victoria. Didn’t you mate,’ said Eddie.
Eddie threw a couple of left jabs at Perry. The limo driver weaved expertly and countered Eddie with a left and right to the mid-section.
‘A while ago,’ smiled Perry.
‘Not that long ago, if you ask me,’ said Les.
Perry took off his coat and cap and Les followed Eddie over to the workbench. Sitting near a lathe were two neat piles of clothes and two Groucho masks. Eddie picked up one pile of clothing and handed it to Les.
‘Righto Fred Astaire,’ said Eddie. ‘Here’s your top hat and tails.’
Eddie handed Les a red and white cotton headscarf edged with small white tassles, plus a ring of thick black cord that doubled over and secured it to your head. Along with a long-sleeved collarless brown cotton shirt that reached the floor and buttoned up to your chin.
Les turned to Eddie. ‘What the …?’
‘The head gear’s called a kofia. The shirt’s a dajdaja,’ said Eddie. ‘Put it on over what you’re wearing.’
Les was sceptical. ‘Yeah righto,’ he said.
Les slipped the dajdaja on and was surprised how easily it fitted over what he was wearing. He buttoned it up then put on the kofia, doubling the ring of black cord above his forehead.
‘And now,’ said Eddie. ‘The piece de resistance.’
Eddie handed Les one of the Groucho masks. He’d tinted the rubber nose darker, glued hair to the plastic moustache and changed the horn rims into sunglasses. Les put it on and turned to Perry, who was now wearing a hooded black tracksuit top and a blue baseball cap.
‘How do I look, Perry?’ asked Les. ‘I feel like a nice Beechams Pill.’
‘Have a look.’
Perry opened a wardrobe near the fridge. Les had a look in the full-length mirror behind the door and was pleasantly surprised. The Groucho mask didn’t look that ridiculous and with the sunglasses hiding his eyes and the kofia masking both sides of his face, his own mother wouldn’t have recognised him. Les stepped back from the mirror.
‘Not too bad, I suppose. All I need is a pair of white shoes and I’d pass for a second-hand camel dealer.’
Eddie put his outfit on and walked over for a look in the mirror. He had the same red and white patterned kofia, but his dajdaja was white.
‘Pretty good if you ask me,’ said Eddie. ‘What do you reckon, Perry?’
‘Terrific,’ said Perry. ‘Laurel and Hardy of the Sahara.’
Perry closed the wardrobe door and Eddie turned to Les. ‘Righto Les,’ he said. ‘Here’s our game plan. As soon as we spot Latte, I’ll give him a whack in the guts to settle him down. You grab him by his right arm and pin it down palm up on the nearest table full of books.’
‘Okay,’ nodded Les.
‘I’ll lop his right little finger off first and get the ring. Then you grab his left arm and pin it down. And I’ll lop the other finger off and grab his watch.’
‘Sweet as a nut.’
‘Now all the while,’ said Eddie, ‘I’m going to be yelling and screaming and carrying on like a madman.’
‘That’s nothing new,’ said Les.
‘And I want you to just keep yelling out Aieee! Aieee!’
‘Aiee? Aiee?’ said Les.
‘Yeah. You’ve seen those ratbags on TV when they’re all running around screaming. Death to Israel. Death to America.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les.
‘Same as that,’ said Eddie. ‘Only louder.’
‘AIEEEE! AIEEE!’ howled Les.
‘That’s it Les,’ said Eddie. ‘Beautiful.’
‘AIEEE! AIEE!’
Perry opened a drawer and handed Eddie a cleaver. It was small but quite heavy with a black plastic handle. ‘Here you are, Eddie,’ he said.
Eddie slipped it under his dajdaja. ‘Thanks mate.’
Perry gave them both a quick once up and down. ‘You right?’ he said.
‘Yeah. Let’s get going,’ answered Eddie.
‘Why not,’ said Les. ‘Aiee! Aiee!’
Perry opened the doors of the Holden and got behind the wheel. Les and Eddie piled in the back. The other garage door swung open and they drove off into the night. They went back over the river, through the CBD, and next thing they were following the traffic down busy Brunswick Street. The Obelisk Bookshop was all lit up when they went past, there was a reasonable crowd inside, and standing at the door was a dark-haired woman in a black dress meeting and greeting. Perry swung the Holden into the side street ahead on the left and stopped in a no parking zone on the corner with the engine running.
‘Righto,’ he said. ‘Good luck, boys. I’ll wait right here.’
‘We won’t be long,’ said Eddie.
‘Two snips of a lamb’s tail,’ smiled Les. ‘Aiee! Aiee!’
They got out of the car and walked towards the bookshop. There were people around and Les expected Saudi Arabia’s answer to Laurel and Hardy would get some strange looks. But
compared to the two Grand Viziers whose photo Les had taken the night before, they were small potatoes and barely rated a second glance. Sitting on the footpath just before the old bookshop was a skinny old white dog with a happy slobbery face. It saw them and started to wag its tail.
‘Hello, old fellah,’ said Eddie as they strode past.
‘G’day mate,’ said Les and gave the old dog a pat on its bony head.
They reached the bookshop and the woman on the door must have thought they were wealthy Middle Eastern buyers; she ushered them inside with a slight bow of her head.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ she said.
‘Yashmak,’ grunted Eddie.
‘Shalom,’ smiled Les.
The front room of the Obelisk looked very wine and cheese, exactly as Ken the owner had said. The men were all wearing well-cut suits, the women were dressed in style, and everybody was sipping on a glass of white wine while a string quartet creaked out Mozart in the next room. Ken the owner was standing on the left in a dark blue suit with a red tie talking to a woman in yellow. Les gave a double blink from behind the sunglasses. It was Sonia, the girl next door. The owner saw Eddie and Les, gave them a second look then turned away, knowing it was impolite to stare. Over to the right, wearing a three-piece grey suit and a regimental striped tie windsor-knotted into a blue shirt with a white collar, was Latte Lindsey. There was no mistaking his egg head, jowly face and oily smile as he escorted a woman in a red floral dress across the room. He was walking measuredly, his left hand flat across his stomach and his right arm bent by his side with his index finger drooped towards the floor. He looked like the Duke of Bedford strolling through his drawing room about to take tea with the Duchess of Crawley. Eddie spotted him the same time as Les, gave Les a nudge in the ribs and went into action.
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