Les shook his head again. ‘No. I don’t mean a Frenchman frog, Eddie. I mean…’ Les made a tiny gesture cupping his hands together, ‘I mean a frog…sort of a frog.’
Eddie tilted his head. ‘A frog sort of a frog?’ he said. ‘You don’t mean a…ribet, ribet kind of frog, do you?’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les. ‘Exactly. A ribet, ribet kind of frog.’
‘What!?’ Eddie started to smoulder. ‘You mean to tell me, I just left a beautiful latte and a strawberry muffin in Pyrmont, and drove through two fuckin red lights to get here, so I could shoot a fuckin frog?’
‘Yeah,’ Les nodded weakly.
‘Right, that’s it. Fuck you, Les.’ Eddie whipped a .38 Colt Detective Special from an ankle holster under his jeans and levelled the snub-nosed barrel at Norton’s face. ‘I’m giving you another nostril, you moron. Right between your fuckin eyes.’
‘All right, Eddie,’ said Les, making a defensive gesture. ‘I don’t blame you getting the shits. But please. Just hear me out. This thing is deadset driving me insane.’
Eddie thought for a moment then replaced the gun. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But this better be good, I’m tellin you.’
‘It is, mate. Believe me.’
‘All right.’ Eddie nodded to the kitchen. ‘Make me a cup of coffee.’
‘The coffee machine’s stuffed. And Warren’s girl broke the plunger. Will a cup of Nescafé with Carnation milk do you?’
‘I s’pose it’ll have to. Won’t it.’
Eddie eased his wiry frame back on a lounge chair while Les sorted things out in the kitchen. There was hot water in the kettle and in no-time Les had two cups of instant coffee together. He handed one to Eddie then sat down on a lounge chair opposite him.
‘How’s that?’ asked Les.
‘Pretty good,’ replied Eddie, after taking a sip. ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of Nescafé now and again.’ Eddie took another sip of coffee and looked directly at Les. ‘Okay. What’s all this about a fuckin frog?’
‘Ohh, mate. This is no ordinary frog,’ replied Les. ‘This is Fabio. The frog from hell.’
Les explained his predicament to Eddie. How he tried to scald the frog, bash it, burn it. But to no avail. And if he didn’t get any sleep before long, he’d either blow the house up or throw himself off the Gap. When Les had finished, he expected Eddie to either give him a gigantic verbal or take his gun back out and shoot him as intended. Instead, Eddie was all smiles and understanding.
‘Mate,’ sympathised Eddie. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’
‘You do?’ said Les.
‘Yeah,’ nodded Eddie. ‘Over in Vietnam. We were at a place called Gia Lai. And the fuckin things there were as big as medicine balls. You could hear them a mile away. Me and Big Barry Benson ended up borrowing a flame thrower off some Yanks one night and gave it to a heap of them before they drove us nuts.’
‘Right,’ said Les. ‘So now you know where I’m coming from.’
‘Yep. I’m with you, baby.’
‘So can you do something?’ pleaded Les.
‘Sure, no problem,’ smiled Eddie. ‘What time does Fabio kick off with his serenading?’
‘Mostly nine o’clock. Out in the backyard.’
‘Righto. I’ll be back here around then. Leave the lights off in the backyard.’
Les reached over and cupped both his hands around one of Eddie’s. ‘Ohh, God bless you, Eddie. You’ve restored my sanity.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Eddie. He placed his cup on the coffee table and smiled up at Norton. ‘Of course you know this is going to cost you—don’t you?’
‘Hey. Sweet as,’ replied Les. ‘Carl Williams was offering three hundred grand for a hit in Melbourne. If that’s what you want. No worries.’
Eddie shook his head. ‘No. I don’t want your money,’ he said. ‘You’re just sitting around picking your arse at the moment like everybody else, aren’t you?’
‘Pretty much,’ agreed Les.
‘You know where Nimbin is?’
‘Nimbin? Yeah. Up near where I took Peregrine.’
‘That’s right. It’s a long way. But a mate of mine’s opening a bar there on the weekend. How about going up Thursday? Give him a hand to sort things out Friday and Saturday night. I’ll be up late Saturday. You can come back Sunday morning.’
‘Good as gold,’ said Les. ‘Who’s the bloke?’
‘Lyle Lonreghan. Lonnie. He’s an old mate of mine from Vietnam. He was in the air force.’
‘What? A pilot?’
Eddie shook his head. ‘No, ground crew. But Lonnie was as good as any soldier I knew. He was a weapons expert. And I mean, expert.’
‘Okay,’ said Les. ‘I’ll be there on Thursday.’
Eddie looked at his watch then stood up. ‘I got to get going. I’ll ring Lonnie, and I’ll fill you in a bit more when I see you tonight.’
‘Righto.’ Les got up and walked Eddie to the door. As he did, he noticed Eddie was limping a little. ‘Hey. What’s up with your leg?’ asked Les.
‘Ahh, I was playing squash with George,’ answered Eddie, ‘and I twisted my bloody ankle.’
‘That’s no good,’ said Les, opening the door. ‘Whack plenty of ice on it.’
‘Yeah. I have been. It’ll be all right in a couple of days. Hey, I’ll tell you what,’ said Eddie, taking his keys out. ‘The fat cunt’s not bad on his feet round a squash court.’
‘Yeah. Well, we all know what a good dancer he is,’ winked Les.
‘Yeah. You’re not wrong,’ smiled Eddie. ‘Okay, I’ll see you tonight.’
Eddie walked down and got into his black Mercedes, giving the horn a bip as he drove off. Les waved, closed the door and walked back into the loungeroom.
Lovely, mused Les, taking the two cups into the kitchen. This ties in nicely with the wedding, so I can stop sulking. And you never know. It might turn out to be a bit of fun. You can bet your life if Lonnie’s an old mate of Eddie’s, he won’t be a very solid citizen. Les thought for a moment, smiled, then walked into the loungeroom, found the number he was looking for and dialled.
‘Yeah hello.’
‘Hello, Deadline. It’s Les Norton.’
‘Hey,’ replied Steve cheerfully. ‘How are you, big fellah?’
‘All right. So is the wedding still on?’
‘Too right, Les. You’re definitely coming, aren’t you?’
‘Are you kidding. I just got my tuxedo out of the cleaners. I can’t wait to get there.’
‘Unreal.’
‘So where are you now?’ asked Les.
‘Blueys Beach,’ answered Steve. ‘Sorting things out.’
‘Where’s Ninety-Nine?’
‘I’m not sure. She’s supposed to be locked in the tower with the chastity belt on. If I find out she’s running with her girlfriends there’ll be trouble. Believe me.’
‘You’re a hard man, Deadline,’ said Les.
‘You have to be,’ said Steve. ‘Hey. I’m glad you rang, Les. I need you to do me a favour.’
‘No worries. What is it?’
‘Steelo’s car’s shit itself. Can you give him a lift?’
‘Sure. I’d be glad to,’ replied Les. ‘The only thing is, I’m heading on up the coast afterwards to see someone. Can you get him a lift home?’
‘Yeah. No sweat,’ replied Steve.
‘All right. Well, I’ll ring Steelo now and tell him what’s going on. And I’ll see you up there. I’ll ring you when we hit town.’
‘Okay, big fellah. See you then.’
Les hung up, found another number and dialled.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Tony. It’s Les Norton.’
‘Hey, Les,’ replied the likeable surf photographer. ‘How are you, mate?’
‘Good. Deadline tells me your car’s thrown a wobbly. And you’re coming up with me.’
‘Yeah. The fuckin brakes went on the fuckin thing. You wouldn’t fuckin believe it. Just as I’m about to go aw
ay. Fuck it. The motherless fuckin heap of fuckin shit.’
‘So what time suits you in the morning, Tony?’ asked Les. ‘I’ve never been to Blueys Beach. Or Myall Lakes for that matter.’
‘It’s only a four-hour drive,’ answered Tony. ‘How about ten o’clock?’
‘Ten o’clock would be perfectly splendid,’ beamed Les. ‘I’ll bip the horn out the front. You just saunter down at your leisure.’
‘All right, Les. See you in the morning. And thanks, mate.’
‘Steelo. It’s my absolute pleasure.’
Les hung up and looked at the phone. You know, it’s funny, he mused. I’ve never heard anyone swear as much as Steelo. And I’ve never heard one bloke say a bad word about him. Women don’t mind him either. Les walked back out to the kitchen and absently rapped his knuckles against the fridge. Okay, he asked himself. What’ll I do now?
After wandering around half asleep day after day and night after night, Norton’s room needed a good tidy, his sheets needed changing and there were a few other things that could do with a drink. Les shoved everything in the washing machine then cleaned out the car for the trip before driving down to Curlewis Street and filling the tank. By then, the day started to cloud over, making it good for a run, so when he’d finished his domestics, Les climbed into his blue shorts and an old grey T-shirt, got a towel and a sweat rag and strolled down to the beach for a jog on the soft sand.
There weren’t many people about and Les didn’t have to dodge around any bodies while he did a lazy six laps. He finished with a few crunches and push-ups and as the southerly had picked up didn’t bother about a swim to cool off, choosing to walk home and get under a nice steaming hot shower instead. Not long after, Les was seated comfortably in the Hakoah Club wearing a clean pair of jeans, a white T-shirt and a black bomber jacket enjoying a chicken schnitzel with creamy potato salad and vegetables, followed by butterscotch pudding and ice cream, all washed down with a flat white.
By the time Les walked home, dithered around the house and packed what he thought he’d need for Blueys Beach and Nimbin, Monday was well and truly shot. Satisfied he had everything together and the house was secure, Les had a large glass of cold mineral water, climbed into his trackies then settled down in front of the TV to wait for Eddie. After another rotten night’s sleep, Les was yawning away, watching not much in particular when there was the same staccato knock on the front door. Les hit the mute button on the TV then strolled down and opened the door. Eddie was standing on the welcome mat, wearing the same clothes as before and carrying a small overnight bag.
‘Hello, dude,’ said Eddie, stepping inside. ‘How are they hanging?’
‘Down to my fuckin ankles,’ replied Les.
Les closed the door and followed Eddie into the loungeroom. Eddie placed the overnight bag on the lounge and was about to unzip it, when he smiled and cupped a hand behind one ear.
‘Hello,’ said Eddie. ‘Do I hear something?’
From somewhere behind the back verandah came an audible and repetitious ‘Pwop! Pwop! Pwop!’ Each one louder than the first.
‘Yes,’ winced Les, ‘that’s him all right. That’s fuckin Fabio.’
‘Okay, Fabio,’ said Eddie, ‘let’s see what we’ve got here for you.’
Eddie opened the bag and took out a short thick object resembling a telephoto lens with a rubber eyepiece and two adjustable straps at one end. He placed it on the lounge, then took out a heavy black pistol with a white serrated handle.
‘Shit! What’s that?’ asked Les, staring at the gun. ‘A forty fuckin five? It’s twice as big as that thing you shoved in my face this morning.’
‘This,’ replied Eddie, ‘is a Crosman .177 calibre air pistol. It works on a gas cylinder in the front. And a little slot at the back where you drop the pellets in. You cock it by pulling the end back.’
Eddie took a lead pellet from a small plastic box, slipped it in the slot, locked the lever then pulled the end of the gun back. He aimed it at a cushion sitting on a lounge chair across the room and squeezed the trigger. A muffled ‘whack’ came from the barrel, then the cushion shuddered violently as the pellet thumped into it.
‘Holy shit,’ exclaimed Les.
‘You’d be flat out killing anybody with one of these,’ said Eddie. ‘But they’ll sit you on your arse pretty quick.’
‘I could bloody imagine,’ agreed Les, staring over at the hole in his cushion.
Eddie placed the air pistol on the lounge and held up the telephoto lens. ‘And this,’ he said, ‘is an AN/PVS-7 Image Intensifier System. A night vision goggle. Or NVG for short.’
‘I’ve seen those things on TV,’ said Les. ‘They use them in Iraq and Afghanistan.’
‘This one came from Pakistan,’ smiled Eddie.
Les gave the NVG a grudging look of approval. ‘Fair enough,’ he said.
Eddie slipped the NVG on top of his head, then dropped another pellet into the air pistol and locked it in. ‘Righto, Les,’ he ordered, ‘I want you to stay in here and maintain a defence perimeter. I’ll perform a strategic forward reconnaissance, positioning myself for a fire and manoeuvre operation.’
‘That’s an affirmative,’ nodded Les.
‘Be advised, if I’m not back by twenty-two hundred hours, call in an air strike. On my pod. The co-ordinates are in my bag.’
‘Roger—Wilco,’ replied Les. ‘Delta Foxtrot Charlie. Bravo Company. Over and out.’
Eddie strapped the NVG over one eye. ‘Kill them all,’ he whispered. ‘Kill them all.’ Eddie walked out to the verandah, the screen door opened and closed quietly, then, apart from Fabio’s serenading, there was silence.
Les sat motionless in front of the mute TV. Out in the backyard he could hear Fabio’s constant ‘Pwop! Pwop! Pwop!’, each burst hitting him like drops in a Chinese water torture. Les was staring absently at the TV, still listening to Fabio’s ‘Pwop! Pwop! Pwop!’ when suddenly a distinct ‘Whack!’ split the night air, followed by silence. The silence continued before it was abruptly broken by another ‘Whack!’ Not long after, the screen door opened and Eddie walked into the loungeroom with the air pistol stuffed in the front of his jeans and the NVG in his hand. Dangling by one leg from his other hand were the remains of a small green and brown frog with yellow stripes.
Norton’s eyes lit up when he saw the frog. ‘You got the cunt,’ he said.
Eddie nodded grimly. ‘It wasn’t easy. His weapon jammed and he came at me with a trench knife. But I managed to overpower him and finish him off with two rounds.’
‘Fair dinkum?’ said Les. ‘It ended up in hand to hand combat. Fuck!’
Eddie placed the gun and the NVG on the lounge then went out to the kitchen. Les followed and watched as Eddie dropped the frog’s mangled body on the sink. It had a jagged hole in its back, a bigger one in its stomach and another hole between its eyes. Half its lungs were hanging out of its mouth and a little blood trickled along the sink. However, with his tiny hands spread out in front of him and a dreamy, peaceful look in his bulbous yellow eyes, Fabio still had a cute froggy smile frozen on his face.
‘So that’s Fabio,’ said Les, giving the dead frog a prod with his finger. ‘He looks kind of happy. Are you sure he’s dead?’
‘Am I sure he’s dead?’ replied Eddie. ‘Of course he’s fuckin dead. Christ! If you don’t believe me, there’s a knife in my bag. Stick it in his fuckin ribs.’
‘No. I’ll take your word for it,’ said Les.
Eddie’s face hardened. ‘The only problem now, Les,’ he said seriously, ‘is what do we do with the body.’
‘Shit! You’re right again, Eddie,’ answered Les. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘I can borrow Price’s boat,’ suggested Eddie. ‘And we can take him out the Heads with a couple of car batteries wired to his legs and throw him over the side. That’s always worked in the past.’
‘It’s definitely a thought,’ agreed Les. ‘Or it might be easier to bury him out near the airport. We
’ve done that before.’
‘You got any shovels?’
‘Yeah. Out in the shed.’
‘I like it,’ nodded Eddie. ‘We’ll take your car.’
Norton looked evenly at Eddie. ‘I got a better idea.’
‘Whatever turns you on, bro.’
Les picked Fabio up by one leg then took him out to the bathroom and lifted the lid on the toilet. ‘Goodbye, you shit of a fuckin thing,’ he said, dropping Fabio in the bowl. ‘See how many roots you get out the front of Ben Buckler.’ Les pushed the flush button and the water swirled, spinning Fabio round in circles a few times before he disappeared forever.
‘How did you go?’ asked Eddie, when Les walked back into the kitchen.
‘Good,’ replied Les. ‘Fabio got a burial at sea. It was very moving.’
‘Wonderful.’ Eddie looked at his watch. ‘All right. I’d better get going.’
‘Righto,’ said Les. ‘And, Eddie. Thanks, mate. That thing was driving me mad.’
‘No worries, Les,’ smiled Eddie, patting Les on the shoulder. ‘That’s what mates are for.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Les followed Eddie into the loungeroom and watched as the deadly hitman replaced everything in his overnight bag. ‘So what’s the story in Nimbin again?’ asked Les.
Eddie handed Les an envelope. ‘That’s Lonnie’s address and phone number. I rang him earlier and told him what’s going on. He was rapt. In fact I’ll ring him again and you can have a quick word with him.’
‘Okay.’
Eddie picked up Norton’s land line and dialled. ‘Hello. Lonnie. It’s Eddie. Yeah. I’m with Les right now. I’ll put him on.’ Eddie handed Les the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Yeah. Is that Les, is it?’ came a friendly voice at the other end.
‘That’s me. How are you, Lyle?’
‘I’m good. Call me Lonnie. Everybody else does.’
‘Righto, Lonnie.’
‘Eddie tells me you’re going to come up and give me a hand with the bar for a couple of nights.’
High Noon in Nimbin Page 2