The Real Thing

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Hey, watch where you’re goin’, you fuckin’ idiot,’ Norton remonstrated to the youth. As he turned from the old lady to face him, the youth brought up a huge revolver and levelled it about a metre from Norton’s face.

  In that horrifying instant time seemed to stand still for Les. He stared into the young hood’s pimply, unshaven face and crazy, smacked-up eyes. Though the face didn’t register on him Norton couldn’t help being fascinated by the young junkie’s left ear: half of it was missing and through the stump glittered a large gold earing. Norton stared at it as if in some sort of a trance because, as he looked from that to the barrel of the gun in front of his face, Norton was convinced they were the last two things he was ever going to see in this world.

  Like he was taking part in a slow-motion movie and his arms were made of lead Norton made a desperate, clumsy lunge at the gun. As he did his foot slipped on a broken egg from the old lady’s upturned shopping bag causing him to slip slightly to one side which was just as well, because at the same instant, the junkie pulled the trigger and the revolver went off with a thunderous roar. Norton felt the shock waves on his face and smelt the cordite as the bullet hummed past his ear. What should have been almost certain death for the big Queenslander was averted by about one centimetre and a broken egg.

  In an instant everything returned to normal. Norton let out a blistering oath of shock and anger and in an unthinking, clumsy rage made another lunge for the junkie. However not only was he slightly over-balanced, he slipped on another broken egg causing him to trip over the old foreign lady, who was still screaming and flopping around in her groceries scattered all over the footpath. Norton pitched forward onto the asphalt alongside her. The junkie aimed the gun at Norton’s chest, paused for a second, then unexpectedly turned on his heel and sped off down the street. By the time Norton had regained his feet the kid had turned down Birrel Street, and was heading for Centennial Park quicker than a tomcat which had just been hit in the arse with a slug gun.

  Idling impatiently in the traffic because a woman had stalled her Celica at the Birrel Street lights, the two detectives turned to each other quizzically at the sound of the revolver going off.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ said Detective Simmiti.

  ‘Yeah. Sounded like a gun,’ replied Detective Mooney. He swivelled round in his seat to see Norton who was bending over the still wildly yelling, old lady and trying to help her to her feet. The shopkeeper had run out by this time and was hopping around next to them gesticulating frantically with his hands.

  ‘Hey, pull in’ Mooney said, pointing to the kerb. ‘There’s something going on back there.’

  They pulled up abruptly and walked swiftly but cautiously back to the trio standing among the groceries scattered on the footpath outside the shop.

  ‘What the bloody hell happened here?’ asked Fred, looking at the mess, then at Les.

  ‘What happened,’ roared Norton. ‘Some greasy little turd just tried to fuckin’ well shoot me. I’m lucky I’m a-fuckin’-live.’

  The two detectives stared at the wild-eyed, florid-faced Norton for a moment or two. They were about to say something when the other two opened up.

  ‘You are police?’ shouted the shopkeeper. An ancient but still solid Lebanese with a completely bald head and a huge droopy moustache, he turned out to be a Mr Ahmed Malouf.

  ‘Detective Simmiti, Waverley,’ replied Len, giving his badge a quick flick.

  ‘Robber bastard, robber bastard,’ screamed Mr Malouf, pointing in every direction at once.

  Then it was the old girl’s turn.

  ‘This man knock me down’ she shrieked, jabbing a fat finger full of gold rings at Les. ‘My eggs. My tomatoes. Eberytink,’ she wailed, pointing to her groceries scattered all over the footpath. At that they both opened up in broken English and their native tongues gesticulating madly with their hands. Detective Simmiti rolled his eyes and held up his own hands in exasperation.

  ‘Fred,’ he said, turning to the other detective, ‘take Les over to the car, get a statement off him and ring the base. I’ll try and sort this rattle out here.’

  ‘Righto,’ replied Detective Mooney. ‘Come on Les.’

  They trotted over to the Ford Falcon. Fred climbed in the passenger seat and picked up the receiver. ‘I’ll just call in and then you can tell us what happened.’ Norton grunted something and nodded his head.

  ‘Twenty-nine-twenty-one. Over.’

  ‘Twenty-nine-twenty-one. Go ahead’ came the crackling, abrupt voice over the VKG.

  ‘We have a signal one. Shots fired at . . .’ Detective Mooney had a quick look at the flats opposite the car, then back at the shop. ‘332 Bronte Road. A small grocer’s shop. Over.’

  ‘Acknowledge 29-21. Over.’

  ‘No one has been hurt. We have three witnesses. We will be at the station in ten minutes. Over and out.’

  ‘Twenty-nine-twenty-one. Over and out.’

  Detective Mooney replaced the receiver and climbed back out of the car. ‘Right. Now, what happened back there Les?’ he asked taking a note pad and biro from his coat’s inside pocket.

  Norton took a deep breath and paused for a moment or two before he replied. Although extremely angry, he was still visibly shaken at suddenly being almost killed for absolutely nothing. He told Detective Mooney everything he could concluding with him getting a quick glance at the kid as he escaped along Bronte Road.

  ‘And you honestly couldn’t describe him? Even though you were only a few metres away?’ Detective Mooney sounded a little sceptical as he looked up from his note pad. He was thinking Norton might be telling a bit of a lie there, and preparing to go looking for the kid himself for a personal square-up.

  However, try as he might, Norton couldn’t recollect the kid’s features; the shock of almost being killed had made his mind a blank for those few moments.

  ‘Fair dinkum, Fred I . . . I just can’t remember. I can remember the gun and what he was wearing, and that he had something wrong with one of his ears. But . . .that’s it. Honest.’

  ‘Mm. . .all right,’ replied Detective Mooney, closing his note pad. ‘That’s understandable, I suppose. But you’ll have to come back to the station and make a statement.’

  ‘Oh, fair dinkum. Do I have to?’ protested Norton. ‘I hate goin’ in there.’

  ‘Yeah, you’ll have to Les. We’ve got to find this cunt. We can’t have some ratbag running around firing guns at people. Anyway it’ll only take a few minutes. Come on, let’s go and see how Len’s getting on.’

  When they got back to Detective Simmiti he just about had everything under control except the old lady who turned out to be Yugoslavian — Mrs Kolodzeij. As soon as she spotted Norton’s big, red head she erupted again.

  ‘This man! This man,’ she shrieked. ‘He is the one. I’m doesn’t doing anything but walking along footpath and he attacking me. Bastard.’ She raised herself up to a full, dumpy metre and a half, and thumped Norton in the stomach.

  Norton tensed then glared down at the fuming old lady. ‘Listen, you stupid old bag,’ he hissed. ‘I didn’t lay a friggin’ hand on you. It was that bloody kid.’ But as he cursed at the old Yugoslavian lady, he realised that if it hadn’t been for her broken eggs he’d probably be lying down next to them dead on the footpath. ‘Look, you horrible old shit,’ he said, taking some money out of his back pocket. ‘Here’s twenty bucks for your rotten bloody groceries. Now leave me alone will you, for Christ’s sake.’

  The old lady snatched the twenty out of Les’s hand. The two detectives had a quick confab.

  ‘We’ll get nothing out of the old girl,’ said Detective Simmiti, ‘so we’ll let her go. I’ll take Mr Malouf back to the station in the car. How about you walk up with Les and I’ll see you back there in about ten minutes?’

  ‘Righto’ replied Detective Mooney. As he spoke a paddy-wagon pulled up alongside and a young, worried-looking constable climbed out.

  ‘Everything all right here?’ he aske
d.

  ‘Yeah, sweet,’ replied Detective Simmiti. ‘We’re all going back to the station now. Mr Malouf — would you mind coming with me please?’

  The old shopkeeper yelled something in Lebanese to his equally old wife standing nervously in the doorway tugging at her apron, then followed Detective Simmiti up to the Ford Falcon with the young constable. The old Yugoslavian lady had by this time retrieved what she could of her groceries and being more than appeased at Norton’s twenty dollars had left the scene of the crime, completely oblivious to the fact that one man, possibly two, had almost been killed next to her.

  ‘Come on Les. You right?’ Detective Mooney gave Les a pat on the shoulder and they started walking towards Waverley police station barely a few hundred metres away.

  ‘Jesus they’re gettin fuckin’ game these days,’ said Detective Mooney, shaking his head. ‘Fancy holding up the joint almost next door. Fuckin’ smack freaks.’ He spat contemptuously into the gutter. ‘Next thing they’ll be holding up the bloody station.’

  ‘I reckon if they got into your and Simmo’s lockers they’d get plenty,’ replied Norton sarcastically.

  Fred turned to Norton and winked. ‘Just think Les,’ he smiled. ‘My first day in the D’s and it was almost your last day in Bondi.’ He laughed out loud at the filthy look Norton gave him then gave him another slap on the back. They walked the remaining fifty metres in silence except for Fred chuckling to himself every now and again.

  There was the usual throng of police, lawyers and defendants milling around out the front of Waverley court; all in small separate groups talking quietly and earnestly trying to take advantage of the few warm rays of sunshine which occasionally broke through the cloud-thick July sky and reflected off the courthouse walls, offering some relief from the bitter sou’-wester whipping the papers and dust along Bronte Road. Fred nodded briefly to a couple of people he recognised. Mooney and Norton stepped past the neatly landscaped entrance and through the shiny plate-glass doors that make Waverley police station one of the nicer looking stations in Sydney.

  ‘Jesus, that bloody wind’s freezing, isn’t it?’ said Detective Mooney giving his hands a quick rub as they walked past the large, modern reception desk to the concrete stairs leading up to the detectives’ rooms.

  ‘Up this way mate.’ Fred turned round and smiled at Norton. ‘Though I think you know your way around here by now, don’t you Les?’

  ‘I hope your lousy, walloper’s coffee’s improved since last time I was here,’ replied Norton flatly. Detective Mooney returned the remark with a grin and a wink.

  In the course of his duties at the Kelly Club and knocking around the Eastern suburbs, Norton had, on more than one occasion, been up on various assault charges. They had all been fairly smartly dropped due to the influence and wealth of one Price Galese. As they climbed the stairs Norton recognised two senior detectives. They weren’t exactly on Price’s payroll, but Norton knew they were getting the odd ‘drink’ now and again. As they drew level the first one stopped.

  ‘Hello Les,’ he said quietly. He had a quick glance at Detective Mooney and his face turned serious. ‘Are you in any sort of trouble?’

  ‘No,’ replied Norton with a quick shake of his head. ‘Everything’s sweet.’

  ‘Okay. But if you need us, we’re just out the back.’ The hard-faced detective nodded his head at the top of the stairs. ‘All right?’

  ‘Yeah righto. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘You know everyone, don’t you Les?’ said Detective Mooney, as they got to the top of the stairs.

  ‘We’ve got a saying in Queensland Moon,’ replied Norton. ‘Strangers are only friends you’ve never met. Even with coppers.’

  Fred gave Norton a condescending smile and led him along a well-lit but drafty corridor to a room running off to the left. ‘In here mate,’ he said, stopping to let Norton enter. ‘Grab a seat, I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Norton plonked himself down on a padded, vinyl seat facing a large pine-veneer desk with a bulky looking, manual typewriter sitting on it, and glanced around the fairly spartan room. A single, uncovered window let the daylight in on several chipped, grey metal filing cabinets pushed up against two of the walls; most of which were covered in dog-eared ‘wanted’ and ‘missing persons’ posters. One wall had markings painted on it for measuring height. In front of it stood a spindly, metal tripod with a flash camera on top. A single pot plant and a couple of waste-paper baskets sat on the blue carpeted floor, and that was about it. Before long Detective Mooney returned with several voluminous files of mug shots. He dumped these on the desk in front of Norton then eased himself into the swivel chair in front of the typewriter and fed a sheet of paper into it.

  ‘Righto Les,’ he said, loosening his tie and taking out his note pad. ‘Have a look through those and see if you can spot your junkie mate, while I type this up.’

  As Detective Mooney thumped away at the typewriter Norton started leafing idly through the pages of black and white photos. After he’d gone through the first folder he hadn’t come across anyone who resembled the kid who tried to shoot him, but he had noticed, apart from them all being a rather villainous looking lot, that several faces were quite familiar. Every now and again Detective Mooney would look up from his typing to see Norton chuckling softly and talking light-heartedly to himself.

  ‘Jesus, Porky Fletcher. What’s he done? Car stealing and assault. Hah! Hello. Here’s Davo Hakes. Shit, I never knew he’d been in the nick. Ronnie Gordon? What’s he done? Assault, resisting arrest, and malicious wounding. Christ — Garfish Gordon? You wouldn’t think he’d break an egg. Hello, here’s one; Freddie fuckin’-Legs. Fraud, uttering, conspiracy, conspiracy to import cocaine. Yeah that’d be Fred all right. Wouldn’t work in an iron lung.’

  ‘Recognise a few friends, do you Les?’ smiled Detective Mooney.

  ‘Yeah, they’re all here. It’s like a regular who’s-who of the Kelly Club and down the beach. How come I’m not in here?’

  ‘Because you’re an honest man Les. Plus you’ve got a guardian angel who drives a Rolls Royce and owns about five million dollars worth of racehorses as well as half of Sydney, and it’s very hard to make anything stick to you.’

  ‘Ah, I’m just a good bloke. Why don’t you admit it you cunt? Anyway I haven’t come across the kid yet.’

  ‘Yeah. Well just keep looking. I should have this finished soon.’

  ‘Hey how come it’s taking you so long Moon?’

  ‘Quadruplicate Les. Everything has to be in fours.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yep. Everything. Even when we have a shit it has to be done four turds at a time.’ Detective Mooney laughed at his own joke and continued typing. Norton went through the rest of the mug shots, finishing the last book about the same time as Fred stopped typing.

  ‘Well, he ain’t in none of these,’ said Norton, closing the last file.

  ‘Can’t see him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mm. Oh well, he might be from interstate. He might even be a clean-skin. Anyway, here’s this statement. Have a read. You don’t have to sign it if you don’t want to.’

  Norton took the statement and gave it a quick but thorough read. ‘Yeah, that looks all right Moon. Give us a biro. I may as well sign the bloody thing — save you having to get up in court and verbal me anyway.’

  Detective Mooney handed Les a pen. As he did, Detective Simmiti walked into the room, a slightly bemused look on his usually impassive face.

  ‘How did you go Fred? Get a description?’ he asked.

  ‘No. No luck at all,’ replied Detective Mooney, retrieving the signed statement from Norton.’

  ‘I did all right. I got several to tell you the truth.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. The grocer-shop owner was most helpful. According to Mr Malouf, the suspect is somewhere between one and two metres with either long, blonde or short, dark hair, slightly built but then again he could have been a footballer. H
e’s not sure whether he was wearing a red, roll-neck pullover or a dark blue suit, but he had a definite foreign accent. Chinese, possibly Irish or Scots.’

  The two detectives shook their heads as Norton started to laugh. ‘So this is life in the D’s, eh Fred? You can stick it in your arse for mine.’

  ‘Now you’ve got an idea of what we’ve got to go through. It’s not quite Hawaii Five-0, is it?’ Detective Mooney looked up at Detective Simmiti. ‘We may as well let Les go Len.’ Detective Simmiti nodded his head in agreement. In an instant Norton was on his feet heading for the door.

  ‘All right then, I’ll get crackin’. Sorry I couldn’t have been more help.’

  ‘Ah, that’s okay,’ sighed Dectective Mooney. ‘Just one thing before you go though Les.’

  Norton paused at the door. ‘Yeah what?’

  ‘If you do happen to spot this young prick, don’t do anything silly. Come and get us — all right?’

  Norton looked from one detective to the other. ‘Sure,’ he replied, with a shrug of his huge shoulders. ‘That’s what you’re getting paid for, isn’t it? And admirably, too, I might add.’ He gave them a last wink. ‘See youse,’ he added, and disappeared down the corridor.

  Don’t do anything silly eh? he said to himself, as he stood outside the police station and zipped up his jacket against the bitter sou’-wester still whipping along Bronte Road. No I won’t do anything silly if I find that junkie. I’ll just throw him in the boot of my car, drive him out to Frenchs Forest and break both his arms and legs, then bury him — alive. He took a glance at his watch. Look at the bloody time: twelve o’clock. There goes the eleven o’clock movie — and my feed at the Greeks. With one last look at Waverley police station he turned the collar up on his jacket, jammed his hands in the pockets and proceeded along Bronte Road towards Bondi Junction, his original destination.