Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘You rotten, lying little toerag.’

  Norton picked up his overnight bag and the ghetto blaster and went to his room.

  He was back almost before he left glaring and pointing an accusing finger at Warren. ‘Somebody’s had a fuck in my bed. You low, dirty cunt, Warren Edwards.’

  ‘Nobody’s had a fuck in your bed,’ groaned Warren. ‘And please, Les. Do you have to shout?’

  ‘Well who’s been in it? Don’t say it was the cat, ’cause we ain’t got a fuckin’ cat.’

  ‘It was the girl I was with last night. She... she didn’t want to sleep with me ’cause I was too drunk. And it was late, so she dossed in your bed. She left about half an hour ago.’

  ‘Hah!’ snorted Norton. ‘I see nothing’s changed since I’ve been gone. Party or no party. You still can’t get a root, you poor silly cunt. You’re hopeless.’

  Warren stared into his coffee mug for a moment, then decided to go on the offensive himself. ‘So where have you been anyway, you prick? The least you could have done is rung. And what happened to your face and your bloody neck? You come in here abusing me in my time of grief for practically no reason at all. You’ve got a bit of explaining to do yourself, you fuckin’ big dope.’

  Norton went to the sink and switched on the electric kettle. Warren’s sudden attack flummoxed him a bit and he had to try hard not to smile. ‘Well,’ he said, as he fossicked around getting a mug of coffee together, ‘the reason I didn’t ring, is because I’ve been shacked up with a married woman while her husband was overseas. And as you know, Warren, that’s not my go.’

  ‘Hello. The Queensland sex symbol’s got himself into a bit of scandal, eh?’

  ‘Sort of. She’s only young and she’s married to this rich old bloke. I knew her from the Kelly Club. She’s always been chasing me — she rang me, so I discreetly went over to her place for a few days and hung round the pool. She’s got a big joint over at Seaforth.’

  ‘And what happened to your head?’

  ‘Well, one morning I heard this noise and I thought it was her husband coming home, so I leapt out the window into the garden and hit my head on some rocks.’ The kettle boiled and Les poured his coffee. ‘But it was only the caretaker come round to fix a leaky tap in the kitchen.’

  ‘Hah! Serves you right.’

  ‘And these,’ Les pulled the neck of his T-shirt down, ‘they’re love-bites. She was one hell of a lover, I can tell you that, Warren, me old mate.’

  ‘Christ! It looks like she tried to strangle you.’

  ‘She did. With her tongue.’ Norton took a sip of coffee and smiled at his flatmate. ‘Unlike you, dry-balls, I have been getting my end in. In fact Warren, I’m convinced that after your recent run of outs, the only way you’re ever going to get laid is to crawl up a chicken’s arse and wait.’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha! Very bloody droll.’

  ‘Anyway, Woz, to cut a long story short: Rosie’s husband was due home this morning, so here I am. The landlord’s back in town. Sober and not hungover like some pisspot too, I might add.’

  ‘How wonderful.’

  ‘Yes. And don’t get too comfortable sitting there, soupbones. You’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do before you bundy on at the pickle factory.’

  ‘Don’t shit yourself. I don’t have to be at the office till lunchtime.’

  Norton took his coffee into the lounge room and surveyed the evidence of the previous night’s festivities. ‘And if there’s one fuckin’ scratch, one tiny scratch on any of my Hunters And Collectors albums...’ Norton’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Warren, ‘your future in the cosy warmth of Maison Norton could be very bleak, old son. Very bleak indeed.’

  Warren shook his head and stared into his coffee. ‘Why couldn’t that woman’s husband have stayed away another week? It was just starting to get good.’

  With Norton helping as much as berating, they were able to get the house cleaned up and Warren off to work by eleven-thirty. Les wanted to get into Warren a bit more about having parties behind his back, but after a nice shower and a change of clothes, being back at home after that flophouse in Randwick had him in too good a mood; plus the look of remorse on Warren’s face mixed with the misery of his hangover was satisfaction enough. Warren was gone about ten minutes when Norton made another cup of coffee, got a clipboard and a biro and sat down on the lounge near the phone. He made a few notations on the clipboard and fixed the six sheets of paper from the old BSA plus the numberplates of the gang’s motorbikes he’d taken down on there as well. The notations and tiny drawings looked almost like a plan of battle. What he was going to try and pull off, a very dubious earn and get rid of his old block of flats, was not something you took lightly. In a way, it was a battle campaign, and Les would treat it as such. He made a few more notations, did a bit of adding and subtracting and had a think. After a while, Norton gave a grunt of satisfaction and decided it was time to make some phone calls.

  ‘Hello, George. How are you, mate?’ said Norton. ‘It’s Les.’

  ‘Well, if it isn’t the boy wonder from the deep north,’ replied George Brennan cheerfully. ‘How are you, shifty?’

  ‘Not bad, George. How’s yourself?’

  ‘Terrific. Did Billy tell you what’s going on up at the club?’

  ‘Yeah. I saw him down the beach on Sunday. He said you’re all getting it pretty easy.’

  ‘Easy? Without you up there to annoy me, it’s almost like a paid holiday. It’s beautiful. Price tried to ring you to see if you and Billy want to do it week about. But you’ve never been home.’

  ‘No. I’ve been running around with this sheila I met. I’ve been staying at her place.’

  ‘Where did you find this one? The Taxi Club?’

  ‘No, outside the Matt Talbot. I shouted her a flagon of sweet sherry.’

  They chitchatted away for a while, with George doing his best to rubbish Les and Les happy to feed the jovial, fat, casino manager a string of lies. Then they got down to the business at hand.

  ‘So, what can I do for you anyway, Les, me old currant bun?’

  ‘You still got that nephew working out the Roads and Traffic Authority?’

  ‘Yes. The bludging little arsehole is still there.’

  ‘I got the number of a motorbike. I need to find out who owns it.’

  ‘No worries. Give it to me. I’ll ring Shithead up and get straight back to you.’

  ‘Good on you, George.’

  Les consulted the clipboard in front of him, circled the numberplate he assumed belonged to the leader of the bikies that day, gave it to George then hung up. George rang back in around ten minutes.

  ‘Fuckin’ cunt,’ was the first thing he said. ‘He just tried to snip me for five hundred dollars. The little prick.’

  ‘Did he have any luck, Uncle George?’

  ‘None. Anyway, here’s the bloke you’re looking for. That bike belongs to Michael Ryan Sutton, 232 Carinyah Road, Bonnyrigg.’

  ‘Christ! That is out west,’ said Norton, writing the address down.

  ‘I assume you’re going out there to bash this bloke, Les. What did he do? Steal your one pair of socks off the line?’

  ‘No, George. Warren sprung him knocking off a bottle of milk out the front.’

  ‘That’d be a good enough reason for you.’

  They joked on the phone for a few more minutes then Les hung up, saying he’d call into the club one night and have a drink.

  Norton looked at the name and address and drummed his fingers on the clipboard. Michael Sutton — that would be right, because he remembered the other bikies answering to him as Mick. Well, if Mick was the boss, he’d almost certainly be in the phone book. Les picked up the White Pages and looked under S. It was there, all right. He wrote it down on the notepad, circled it, and had a quick think. What was that old saying? Strike while the iron is hot. Yes, there’s certainly no time like the present. He dialled again and this time a nasally whining woman’s voice answered.

&nbs
p; ‘Hello,’ it drawled.

  ‘Yes. Is Mick there please?’

  ‘I dunno,’ replied the voice carefully. ‘I’ll have a look. Who’ll I say it is?’

  Norton had to think for a moment. If he said he was anyone to do with the old block of flats Mick probably wouldn’t come to the phone. Bikies generally all have nicknames like Jacko, Davo, Oily, Smelly, Greaseball... He lifted one cheek of his backside off the lounge and farted.

  ‘Tell him it’s Stinky,’ he said, waving at the smell with the clipboard.

  Les could hear footsteps, a TV going in the background, some dogs barking, then more heavy footsteps. Then someone picked up the phone.

  ‘Yeah, this is Mick. Who’s this?’

  ‘Hello, Mick, me old mate,’ replied Norton happily. ‘It’s Mr Smith here, the caretaker of those flats at Randwick. I met you on Sunday.’

  Sitting painfully in his weatherboard Bonnyrigg cottage, with six broken ribs, a couple of teeth missing and stitches and bruising all over his head, Mick wasn’t ready for or wanting this. Norton had to hold the phone almost a foot away from his ear at the bikie leader’s reply.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?!!! How did you get this fuckin’ number?!!’

  ‘I wrote down the number of your motorbike, Mick. Easy.’

  ‘Why you! Go and get—’

  ‘Now hold on, Mick,’ cut in Les. ‘Don’t be like that. I’ve rung up to help you.’

  ‘The only way you could help me, you cunt, is to —’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ interrupted Norton ‘fall into a vat of boiling sump oil. But the thing is, Mick, I think I’ve found what you and your friends were looking for.’ This slowed the big bikie up and stopped him from slamming down the phone. Les could hear his angry breathing and picture the look on his face. He smiled to himself as he recollected pulling a stroke something like this before and moved the point of the biro across page one of the recipe. ‘Does “Preparation of Beta-Phenyl Isopropylamine In Five Kilogram Amounts” mean anything to you, Mick?’ Norton swore he could almost hear the bikie’s face screw up and his eyes click over the phone. ‘What about, “Acetic Acid in a two litre induction flask, heat to 280° fahrenheit”?’ Norton flicked through the pages. “Benzol-Pschyloprine, Sodium Iso”... Shit! There’s six pages of this stuff here and I can’t even pronounce half of it. But it’s all here. Retort stands, ketones. And I’m pretty certain it’s what you’re looking for, Mick.’ Norton waited for a moment. ‘Are you there, Mick?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fuckin’ here,’ hissed the big bikie. ‘Listen, where did you get that?’

  ‘Where? In that flat. Where do you think?’

  ‘You fuckin’ —’

  ‘Now hold on Mick. It’s no good getting the shits. The thing is, it’s a recipe for crank. I’ve got it and you want it. And I’m more than willing to let you have it. But like I told you on Sunday, Mick, me and my mate are very religious people. And before we give it to you, you’re going to have to make quite a considerable donation to the church.’ Norton could sense the bikie’s rage over the phone at the almost futile position he was in. Now it was time to really stir the pot. ‘You can have it back for a hundred thousand dollars.’

  ‘What!!! You know what you can fuckin’ well do.’

  ‘No,’ chuckled Les, ‘but I can imagine. A hundred grand, Mick. I’ll ring you tomorrow morning at ten sharp. You got that?’ The bikie didn’t reply but Les knew he was still on the line. ‘A hundred grand, you get your recipe back — I don’t give it to the cops and I don’t take them up to flat five and tell them what I think happened to Jimmy. It’d be a good bust for them, Mick. They’d love that, on the news and everything. I’ll ring you tomorrow morning, ten a.m.’

  Norton hung up and couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Well, I reckon that might’ve put a cat amongst the pigeons, he mused. Or a cat among the rats — whatever the case may be. Norton got up, made a fresh cup of coffee, came back to the phone and once again studied the clipboard. So, that’s phase one of Operation Blue Seas completed. Now, what about phase two? This time Les got the Sydney Yellow Pages. He let his fingers do the walking till he found what he was looking for: The Seven Gypsies Restaurant at Enmore.

  Norton had met an unbelievable number of people since he came to Sydney from Queensland, mainly through working at The Kelly Club. Some he wished he’d never met, others he was glad he had. Grigor Ciotsa sort of fell into a grey area. Les first met him when he was driving a delivery truck for a meatworks in Ultimo. Grigor had not long migrated to Australia from Romania and he used to hustle Scotch fillets and rumps and stuff in the restaurant trade. This was just a temporary use so he could cement himself as a good Aussie citizen before getting into what he was best at: in Grigor’s case, moving drugs, stolen cars, insurance scams and — his speciality — arson. Before he came to Australia, Grigor Ciotsa was a captain in the Romanian Securitate — an explosives expert. He must have read the writing on the wall and got out of Romania years before all the shit hit the fan there, with the fall of the Ceacescu dictatorship and got his brother Vaclav out to Australia not long afterwards.

  Grigor got out of hustling meat long before Les got into football and working on the door at the Kelly Club, which was where he bumped into Grigor again. By now Grigor and his brother had well and truly established themselves in the Sydney crime scene and, like most crime figures, didn’t mind getting into a bit of heavy gambling to wash away a bit of black money. And what better place to do it than the Kelly Club? It was well run, the mugs didn’t get in, only the cream of Sydney’s underworld frequented the place and whenever Grigor, Vaclav or their heavies lobbed up to splurge a few grand, Grigor’s old compatriot from the meatworks was on the door to greet them and send them straight up the stairs with a laugh and a joke thrown in. For all his rotten villainy, Les didn’t mind Grigor, even if he was one of those schizoid types who could laugh and joke with you one day, then think nothing of it if he had to blow your head off the next. But there were two things that really cemented Les to Grigor and his brother, and they happened barely a month apart.

  On the first occasion it wasn’t all that much. Grigor’s brother left the club early one night, leaving Grigor to punt on almost to the death and head home very drunk with about fifteen grand in his kick. Les and Billy offered to put Grigor in a taxi but, full of piss and bravado, he said he was going to have a meal and a coffee with some friends. After the club closed, Les and Billy walked to their cars. As was usual at that time of the morning Norton was feeling a bit peckish, so he decided to walk back up to the Cross and get a lamb yeeros. It was lucky for Grigor he did, because just before he got to the main road he saw the Romanian ambling drunkenly towards him with four young hoods right behind like a pack of wolves getting ready for the kill. They pounced on Grigor and even though he wasn’t doing too bad, considering how drunk he was, his luck was fast running out until Norton lobbed on the scene. Between Les and Grigor, who was now on his feet, the four hoods were wishing they’d never been born, let alone come up the Cross that night — particularly when Grigor pulled out a knife and wanted to cut their throats. But this time Les bundled him into a cab and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  The following night, Grigor was back at the club with a couple of his heavies, and two thousand dollars was shoved in Norton’s hand whether he wanted it or not.

  Helping someone out in a fight is a pretty good favour, but for a bloke like Les it was almost taken for granted — he’d done it that many times he’d lost count. But the thing that really cemented Norton to the Ciotsas happened two or three weeks later.

  It was a late-summer Sunday afternoon on Bondi Beach with not all that many people around. Norton was walking arm in arm along the water’s edge with some British Airways hostess he’d met somewhere, doing his best to act the romantic lover with the sun going down, the waves breaking on the sand, and the seagulls in the air. They just happened to be at the south end of the beach at the same time as Vaclav, who was there with his
wife and four year old son. Vaclav had walked up to the car for something, leaving his wife on the beach. She turned her back for barely a second and kids being kids, the little boy jumped in the water, and was washed out by a wave into the rip that always forms at South Bondi between the rocks and the baths. Norton saw the woman screaming and the kid’s head bobbing out to sea in the rip. The nearest boardrider was fifty metres away so, without thinking, he plunged in, drifted out with the rip, grabbed the terrified kid, got him up on the rocks and carried him back to his mother. Vaclav was walking back and heard all the commotion and could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw Norton carrying his son back to his wife who was yammering away in Romanian at the top of her voice. Really it was no big deal. Lifesavers and beach inspectors did more spectacular things hundreds of times every weekend and barely got thanks, let alone any recognition for it.

  But to Vaclav and his wife, both non-swimmers, it was the most heroic deed they’d ever seen, and to them Norton was Indiana Jones, Tarzan and The Man From Snowy River all rolled into one. And when Uncle Grigor, the Don Corleone of the Romanian community, found out that Norton had not only saved his neck, but his loving nephew’s life as well, it was a different matter altogether. It was almost a ceremony when he and Vaclav called round to the Kelly Club to thank him through the week. Les refused to take the money they offered, but the way Grigor put it, Les was now almost part of the family, and if he didn’t give the Romanian a chance to show his gratitude in some way at some time, it would be an insult to Grigor’s standing in the Romanian community. In Grigor’s words, he owed Les Norton a debt of honour in blood. A debt that must be repaid.

  Les knew that Grigor worked out of his restaurant at Enmore, which was little more than a front for his nefarious deeds, and tipped that he’d be there early in the week. He laughed to himself as he dialled. Oh well, Grigor, old buddy, old pal, you want to repay a debt of honour? Norton’s laughter turned into a shrewd smile as he heard the phone ringing at the other end. This could be your big chance. And honour is honour.