Between the Devlin and the Deep Blue Seas

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Hello,’ came a thick, guttural voice.

  ‘Could I speak to Grigor, please?’

  ‘I am not sure he is in,’ the voice said carefully. ‘I will look. Who calls please?’

  ‘Tell him it’s Les Norton from the Kelly Club.’

  There were heavy footsteps, a door slammed, more heavy footsteps then a cheerful, foreign voice boomed down the phone. ‘Les Norton, my friend! My very good friend. How are you, Les?’

  ‘Pretty good, Grigor. How’s yourself?’

  ‘Excellent, excellent. One hundred per cent. I hear of the trouble you are having at the club. A bad thing this.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a bit of a bummer, all right, Grigor,’ agreed Les. ‘But that’s the way it goes.’

  ‘I would like to think you are ringing me for a job, Les Norton. Straight away I can do something for a man of your calibre.’

  ‘No, Grigor. But thanks for the offer.’

  ‘It is my pleasure — as you know, my good friend.’

  ‘Actually, Grigor, I wanted to see you about something entirely different.’

  ‘Yes?’ answered the Romanian slowly, starting to get the picture already.

  ‘I’d like to call over and see you if I could.’

  ‘That is no problem — I would prefer that. I am not a man who likes to discuss, shall we say, personal matters over the phone.’

  ‘Yeah. Not these days anyway. Could I come over tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course, my friend. What time?’

  ‘Say... eleven tomorrow morning?’

  ‘No problem at all. Would you like to join me for lunch? We do an excellent Chicken Dniester at my restaurant.’

  ‘No, just a cup of coffee’ll do, thanks Grigor.’

  ‘Then I shall look forward to your visit tomorrow, my friend. You know where it is?’

  ‘Yeah. Enmore Road. Just down from the pub.’ ‘Tomorrow at eleven, then, Les.’

  ‘See you then, Grigor.’

  Well, that’s the start of phase two, thought Norton, staring absently at the phone after he’d hung up. For better or for bloody worse. Now what will I do for the rest of the day? Will I have a feed or a run?

  No, bugger it. I’ll have a run, then cook something for tea and annoy the shit out of that little bastard Warren when he comes all hungover and crook tonight. Parties behind my back... Sorry Les, but I thought you were dead — taking advantage of the landlord like that. What a hide.

  Norton had a run along Bondi Beach and a swim then spent the rest of the afternoon deep in thought as he pottered around the house. By the time he’d got a corner cut of topside baked and the vegetables done Warren was home looking exactly how Les hoped he’d look: tired and still a bit seedy.

  ‘So? said Norton, sitting in the kitchen sipping a can of lemonade. ‘The Great Gatsby’s home. What’s doing tonight, Gats? Another party?’

  ‘Please, Les,’ replied Warren, heading straight for the fridge and the mineral water. ‘I’ve had a cunt of a day at work. I’m totally fucked, and I’m not in the mood for any verbal repartee.’

  ‘Yeah? Not like last night, when you were running round here like Jack the lad, wrecking my beautiful house?’

  Warren ignored Les and poured himself a glass of Hepburn Spa.

  ‘You hungry?’ asked Les.

  ‘Yeah, I am, actually.’

  ‘Well I’ve got a nice roast of beef in the oven. Why don’t you get changed and have a shower and shitty old Les the Landlord’ll have it waiting on the table for you when you come out.’

  Despite himself, Warren couldn’t help but smile. ‘Have you honestly been off the drink all week?’

  Norton nodded and held up the can of lemonade. ‘And I’m still off it too.’

  Warren shook his head. ‘Jesus! I wish I had your willpower.’

  ‘Yeah, well that’s it, ain’t it? Some of us have, and some of us haven’t. Go on, go and have a scrub before I change my mind and send you down for a pizza.’

  They ripped into the roast beef, cleaned up and settled back to watch the Monday night movie. Ironically, the movie was an old John Wayne thing about Red Adair the firefighter. Norton could barely conceal his amusement and would have loved to have said something to Warren. Instead, he was in bed not long after Warren, around eleven.

  Tuesday was warm, bright and sunny with the summer nor’easter barely rippling the ocean when Norton got out of his car at North Bondi for a run at seven o’clock. He wanted his head nice and clear for what he had to do that day, so he jogged eight laps of the beach deep in thought, had a swim, then a cold shower on the promenade.

  He was home when Warren surfaced just after eight; and although the young advertising genius was in decidedly better shape than the previous morning, he still mumbled and stumbled around the house getting his shit together. Norton put on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt, got some eggs and coffee into Warren and had him ready for work by nine.

  ‘Jesus! Roast beef for tea last night. Poached eggs this morning...’ Warren smiled and jangled his car keys at Les, who was still sitting in the kitchen reading the paper. ‘If you weren’t such an ugly, miserable big cunt it’d be almost good having you back home.’

  ‘Just remember what I said, Woz,’ replied Norton, without looking up from the paper. ‘One scratch on those Hunters And Collectors albums... Just one, tiny scratch...’

  Warren blew Les a kiss from the kitchen doorway. ‘I’ll be home about five-thirty Mum. Don’t bum my dinner.’

  Norton cleaned up in the kitchen, made another cup of coffee and went through the paper again. Before long it was ten and he went into the lounge room to the phone. He dialled Bonnyrigg, recognising the voice at the other end. ‘Is that you, Mick?’

  ‘Yeah, this is Mick,’ came the surly reply.

  ‘I thought it was. This is Mr Smith the caretaker. How are you mate?’

  ‘You can knock up with the fucking around, pal. Get to the point. What do you want?’

  ‘Jeez, we are titchy this morning, aren’t we? Okay, Mick. Like I said, a hundred grand.’

  ‘There’s no way we can come up with a hundred grand.’

  ‘You can’t? Jesus, what a lousy, low lot of bikies you bunch are. Well, how much have you got?’

  ‘Fifty.’

  ‘Fifty! Fuck off. It’ll take fifty grand just to recarpet that beautiful home unit you ruined. Come on, Mick. Get fair dinkum.’

  ‘Fifty. It’s the best we can do.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Norton thought for a moment or two. ‘I’ll make it seventy-five. And that’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Jesus...’

  ‘Come on, Mick. That’s my last offer or I go to the wallopers. Like a good, concerned citizen should.’

  There was heavy breathing on the other end of the line then a hand went over the phone and Norton had an idea Mick wasn’t alone in the house.

  ‘All right!’ Mick’s voice came back. ‘Seventy-five.’

  ‘Good man. Now, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You know that garage on the corner opposite the flats?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there tomorrow morning at ten-thirty sharp.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘How many of you’ll be there?’

  ‘Four of us. We’ll be in a blue, 1967 Ford.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be waiting on the comer at ten-thirty. And don’t get too many funny ideas.’

  ‘We’ll see you in the morning. Ten-thirty,’ came the inimical reply.

  Well, that’s that, thought Les, after he hung up. A bit of luck, and I should have a nice seventy-five in the bin tomorrow. He stared at the phone for a moment. But I trust those crankheads about as far as I could place-kick a dead walrus. Should I take some help with me? He drummed his fingers on the coffee table. No, the less people know about all this the better. I think I know what to do.

  Norton glanced at his watch. It was about time to go and see his old mate from Romania.

  Grigor’s restaurant was
n’t hard to find; Les got held up in the Enmore Road traffic just before the lights at the Enmore Hotel. Unlike the Romanian flag the place was all dark brown, edged with red and white. There was a solid, double wooden door on one side, a plate glass window on the other with a number of plants and palms on a ledge at the bottom. Above this was a sign in red saying The Seven Gypsies Restaurant and an image of a caravan and a man with an earring in one ear, a red scarf on his head, and a violin tucked under his chin. Norton took a left at the lights into Edgeware Road and found a parking spot on a lot behind the Enmore Medical Centre. The door to the restaurant was locked when Les walked back. Les knocked. When the door opened a minute or so later, the person standing there wasn’t Grigor and his nickname definitely wasn’t Smiling Jim. He was about six feet twelve with oily, black hair, high cheekbones and typical jowly, Slavic features.

  ‘Yes?’ he said bluntly, looking down at Norton.

  ‘Is Grigor in?’ asked Les. ‘He’s expecting me. My name’s Les Norton.’

  ‘Moment.’ The heavy closed the door and was back about half a minute later. But this time he was smiling. ‘Please to come in,’ he said, with a slight bow of his head and a gesture with his arm. ‘Sorry you must wait, but —’

  ‘That’s okay, mate,’ replied Les and stepped inside.

  The restaurant was fairly dark and it took a moment or two for Norton’s eyes to adjust. The ceiling was black and the carpet was dark brown. There were mirror tiles on one wall, paintings, murals and Romanian flags on the other. Three rows of chairs and tables led to the kitchen and a servery at the rear, square tables on the outside, round ones in the middle. Les was peering around, still trying to adjust to the darkness when a voice boomed out from a cubicle in the far right-hand comer.

  ‘Les! Down here, my friend.’

  With a friendly grin on his face and wearing a brown, check suit, Grigor was seated next to his brother. Like the heavy on the door, Grigor too had oily, black hair and the same, jowly Slavic features. A pair of bushy eyebrows topped a pair of dark brown eyes and a slightly broken nose. Unlike the heavy, Grigor was shorter and stockier with a barrel chest and a paunch. Between his days hustling Scotch fillets and being a restaurant owner, it was obvious that Grigor hadn’t gone without too many feeds since he arrived in Australia. Sitting next to him in a dark blue suit Vaclav looked much the same only a little leaner and without the broken nose. They both stood up and Grigor offered his hand.

  ‘Hello, Les. It is good to see you.’

  ‘Yeah. You too Grigor.’ Norton took the Romanian’s strong, friendly grip and he did the same with his brother. ‘G’day, Vaclav. How are you mate?’

  ‘Excellent,’ replied Vaclav. ‘And may I say it is a pleasure to see you at our place for a change.’

  ‘Yeah. And during daylight too,’ agreed Les.

  Grigor said something to the heavy in Romanian and turned to Les. ‘You want coffee, Les? Good coffee.’ Norton nodded, Grigor said something else to the heavy then motioned for Les to sit down.

  ‘So, how is it to be out of work, Les?’ asked Vaclav.

  ‘It’s a tough old world, Vaclav,’ winked Norton. ‘But I think I’ll get by somehow.’

  ‘I am certain you will,’ chuckled Grigor.

  They exchanged small talk for a while, the Kelly Club, their restaurant, old times at the meatworks etc, as the heavy returned with a pot of coffee and other things on a tray which he placed on the table before disappearing once more into the kitchen. They finished one cup of coffee and were started on another when the conversation began to settle down a little and Grigor decided to get to the nitty-gritty.

  ‘So, Les, my good friend. Now what is it my brother and 1 can do for you?’

  Norton took another sip of coffee then put the cup down and looked directly at the Romanian. ‘Are you still handy with a box of matches, Grigor?’

  The two brothers looked at each other for a moment then roared laughing. Grigor reached across and gave Norton a friendly slap on the shoulder that almost knocked him out of the cubicle.

  ‘By golly, I like this man,’ he laughed. ‘Are we still good with the box of matches? Of course we are. We are the best We are number one with the box of matches.’ They both roared with laughter again, then Grigor continued. ‘So, Les. Tell us your problem.’

  Over the rest of the pot of coffee, Norton told them all about the block of flats. Where it was, the condition, how big it was, who lived there. What the council intended doing, how much the place was costing him and what he intended doing.

  ‘So, that’s it, fellas. The place is a complete fuckin’ lemon and I want to torch it for the insurance. I know you’re the best. How much do you want to do it?’

  Suddenly both brother’s faces went very serious.

  ‘What was that you just said Les?’ intoned Vaclav.

  ‘I said how much do you want do to it?’ repeated Norton.

  Grigor reached across the table and gripped Norton’s forearm. ‘You must never mention money to us, Les,’ he said, slowly and deliberately.

  ‘Your money is no good in this restaurant,’ added Vaclav. ‘Here or any place else where my brother and I are.’

  ‘Well, I just thought...’ shrugged Norton.

  ‘Don’t even think of money, let alone discuss it before we two Ciotsa brothers,’ said Grigor.

  ‘Okay, fair enough,’ said Les. ‘It’s just—’

  ‘You are family to us, Les Norton,’ said Vaclav. ‘We are the ones in debt to you.’

  ‘All right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So you should be,’ Vaclav nodded.

  There was silence for a few seconds, then Grigor spoke. ‘So, Les. You say this old block of flats is over at Randwick?’

  ‘Yeah. Not far from the hospital, just near the Royal Hotel.’

  Grigor turned to his brother then back to Les. ‘What is wrong with us going there now?’ He gave a shrug. ‘We have a look. Then we know one hundred per cent what we are to do.’

  ‘Righto. Suits me,’ said Les.

  ‘Where are you parked?’ asked Vaclav.

  Les told them where his car was. Grigor said to wait in it, they would get theirs and follow him back to Randwick, but just park a hundred or so metres down the street. Les said he understood then finished his coffee and the heavy opened the door with another smile and Norton stepped out into the busy street.

  Well, that’s all right, he thought, as he walked back to his car. The boys are going to do it for nothing. I’m in front already. Just as long as they don’t fuck up. Nah, I can’t see it — not those two villains. And I reckon they might do an extra special job on this one. Norton grinned to himself. And why shouldn’t they? After all, honour is honour. I almost drowned saving Vaclav’s kid in those mountainous seas.

  Norton was sitting in his car when a dark blue Mercedes saloon with tinted windows cruised into the parking lot. The driver’s side window was down and Les could see the heavy behind the wheel. Norton gave him a nod and drove back out into Edgeware Road. Less than half an hour later they were parked just down from the garage opposite the old block of flats. Les waited in the car as the two brothers walked up to him.

  ‘Is that the place on the corner?’ asked Grigor, nodding in the direction of Blue Seas Apartments.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘You wait here, then. We shall not be long.’

  Norton switched on the car radio and read the paper.

  They were back in less than twenty minutes. Grigor got in the front, Vaclav sat in the back; both had smiles on their faces.

  ‘Well? What do you reckon?’ said Norton.

  ‘It is, how you say?’ said Grigor ‘A piece of piss.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Norton was pleased and at the same time surprised that there was nothing to stuff things up.

  ‘Those old wooden stairs,’ said Vaclav. ‘The tar roof, the gas coppers in the laundry. I am curious an old place like that has not caught fire on its own. It is a death trap. There were some wo
men sunbaking on the roof too. But they did not see us.’

  ‘Don’t worry about them,’ said Les. ‘They live there.’

  ‘I tell you one thing,’ said Grigor. ‘When it does go, nothing will stop it. She will be off like the rotten fishcake,’ he added with a laugh.

  ‘Suits me,’ replied Les. ‘I’m only sorry I bought the fuckin’ joint in the first place. So what do you intend to do? Or should I just mind my own business?’

  ‘That is all right,’said Grigor. ‘Do you know something of explosives, Les?’

  ‘I’ve used gelignite and I know how to make a homemade bomb.’

  ‘Have you heard of Semtex?’ asked Vaclav.

  ‘Semtex.’ Norton had to think for a moment. ‘Isn’t that what the IRA and the terrorists use on the planes?’

  ‘Correct,’ nodded Grigor. ‘It comes from Czechoslovakia. What we use is the next grade up. RT-66.’

  ‘RT-66?’ shrugged Les. ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Nor should you. It is the new generation of explosive. I helped to develop it when I was in the army. Only four people besides my brother know the formula; and three of them are dead.’

  ‘It is two explosives in one,’ said Vaclav. ‘Do you know of the toothpaste called Stripe? How it comes from the tube?’ Norton nodded. ‘Tins one is much the same in appearance. The two components, they are counteracting each other, causing the implosion rather than the explosion.’

  ‘I think I get the picture,’ said Les.

  ‘We put it in the right places,’ said Grigor. ‘First comes like the small explosion. Then all the gasses build up and three minutes later a massive fireball will hit the tar-covered roof, comes one more explosion then the lot comes down on those old gas coppers... and that is it, Les. The whole rotten place will fall in. Three minutes at most. Insurance company will think gas explosion. Beautiful.’

  ‘What about the people inside?’

  ‘That is not our concern,’ shrugged Grigor.

  ‘When do you wish us to do it, Les?’ asked Vaclav.