The two men stared at them expressionless, finally the older man jerked his head towards the open sea and the boat moved away. As it did Norton took a mental note of the name and number on the side. DZ983N ‘Senorita’.
‘Fuckin’ gigs in their power-boats,’ muttered Gary. ‘They give me the shits.’
‘Yeah,’ replied Norton. ‘Anyway, listen Gary. I might get you to . . .’ Suddenly there was a violent tugging on Norton’s line. ‘Hey hold on, I got a bloody fish.’ Excitedly, Norton started reeling in his line, coming up with a fair sized, speckly brown fish not unlike a groper. ‘There y’are, look at that,’ he said happily, watching it flopping around the bottom of the boat. ‘At least I got a feed.’
Gary started laughing at the back of the boat. ‘You can’t eat them Les, it’s a wirra.’
‘A what?’
‘A wirra. They’re no good. You can’t even use ’em for bait.’
Norton was absolutely flabbergasted. ‘Are you fair dinkum?’
‘Yeah, fair dinkum. You can’t eat ’em. They taste like shit.’
‘You mean to tell me I’ve been out here all morning, I finally get a fish and I can’t bloody eat it.’
‘Sorry mate.’
‘Right, well that’s fuckin’ it.’ Norton unhooked the fish, threw it back in the water, wound up his line and tossed it in the plastic box near Gary’s feet. ‘Take me back to the bloody boat-sheds.’
Gary still couldn’t help but laugh but in a way he was relieved Norton was going in; it was getting to be an embarrassment. ‘All right Les,’ he said, starting up the motor. As they pulled off Norton noticed the black power-boat was still scouring the area.
‘Thanks anyway, Gary,’ muttered Les as he jumped out of the boat with his bag in one hand and his sneakers in the other.
‘That’s all right Les, anytime. I’m going back out though while they’re still on. I’ll see you later.’
‘Yeah righto, go for your life.’ Gary spun the boat around and headed back out. ‘Hey, what about my ten dollars?’ yelled Les. Over the noisy outboard motor Gary didn’t hear him and just waved back. Great, thought Les. He climbed the stairs outside the boat-shed, got in his car and headed home.
He had a quick clean-up, then over a large mug of coffee he started to examine the parcel he had just appropriated. He removed the orange marker buoy and with a kitchen knife carefully cut through the thick plastic tape binding several layers of heavy, brown tar-paper. Underneath this was a heavy, black plastic bag securely bound with more thick plastic tape. This covered what appeared to be a quantity of white powder in two more clear plastic bags heavily bound with more thick plastic tape. He gently cut through the tape binding the remaining plastic bag, opened it and sprinkled some out on to a piece of plain paper. Also inside the plastic bag was a short note.
‘M.Important. Our new phone and address. I will be in touch. T. 650 Plaza Centralos. La Paz. Bolivia. 838.8224.’
He wrote a copy of the note and put the original back in the plastic bag then started to examine the remaining powder on the piece of paper. Not being into drugs Norton wasn’t quite sure what he had. If there was a joint going round at a party he’d have a toke on that but pills and powder didn’t interest him. If anything they repulsed him, though he had a fair idea what he’d found.
The white, shiny powder wasn’t really like a powder, more granulated not unlike a small version of Lux soap-flakes. Under the kitchen light it glistened noticeably and when he ran it between his fingers it had a slimy, silky feel about it. With his little finger he dabbed a bit on the tip of his tongue — it immediately went numb in that area.
‘Uh huh,’ he said out loud, ‘the old Okefenoke.’ He looked at it for a few moments rubbing his chin thoughtfully then placed it on a set of kitchen scales. So, I’ve got myself a kilogram of cocaine he thought. Now what am I gonna do with it?
He wrapped the kilogram of cocaine up exactly as he’d found it and hid it carefully in his bedroom; the amount he’d sprinkled out he folded up in a small piece of Alfoil he tore off a roll in the cupboard. He got a can of Fourex out of the fridge and sat there staring at it intently, thoughtfully stroking his chin the whole time. After about 20 minutes he picked up the phone and dialled a number.
‘Hello Price, it’s Les. How are you?’
‘Les Norton the famous fisherman. How did you go son?’
Without mentioning anything about the cocaine Les told Price briefly what happened. When Price had finished laughing Les spoke.
‘Price, have you still got that contact at the Maritime Services Board?’
‘Sure. You want something do you?’
‘Maybe. All right if I give him a call?’
‘Sure. It’s extension 066, ask for Grahame Keogh. Tell him who you are and tell him I said it’s sweet.’
‘Okay. Thanks Price.’ They chatted for a few minutes then Les hung up and rang the MSB, getting through almost immediately to Keogh.
‘Just hold on a minute,’ said Grahame, ‘while I run that number through the computer. DZ983N, is that right?’
‘Yeah.’ Les waited patiently on the end of the line.
‘You there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The boat belongs to a Martin Reynolds. 16 Harbour View Crescent, Rose Bay. His phone number’s 307 0552.’
‘Thanks a lot, Grahame. I owe you a drink some time.’
‘No worries. Say hello to Price for me.’
Norton hung up, thought for a moment then decided to leave it till 4pm before he’d ring Martin Reynolds. He vacuumed the house, made a chicken casserole and did a bit more cleaning up. Then it was 4pm. He opened a can of Fourex and dialled the number Keogh had given him.
‘Hello,’ said a voice at the other end.
‘Yeah, is Martin Reynolds there please?’
There was a pause for a moment. ‘I’ll see if he’s in. Who’s calling?’
‘Tell him it’s a mate of his from South America. I’m sellin’ bananas.’
There was another pause, longer this time. ‘Just wait there,’ said the voice cautiously.
After a while another voice came to the phone, Norton could also hear the click of another phone being picked up. ‘Hello this is Martin. Who’s this?’ a voice said a little brusquely.
‘G’day Marty, old son. I’ll get straight to the point. Did you lose something this morning?’
There were a few seconds of silence. ‘What are you talking about? Who is this?’
‘I’m talking about a little brown parcel bound with plastic tape and full of . . . well I don’t think it’s icing sugar.’
There was another silence. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who the fuck is this anyway?’
‘You don’t know what I’m talking about, eh? How about T’s new phone number and address in Bolivia. Is that any good to you?’
There was silence for a few more seconds. Norton could hear Reynolds’s laboured breathing over the phone. ‘Who the fuckin’ hell are you smart arse? What do you want?’
‘You know what I want shitbags. And you know what I’ve got. I’ll ring you back at 9.30 sharp tomorrow morning. I’ll sort it out with you then.’
Norton hung up abruptly and laughed to himself. He got another can of beer from the fridge and went out in the back-yard to relax on his banana-chair and wait for Warren to come home.
Warren arrived home from the advertising agency about six. After discussing the day’s fishing with Les over a couple of beers he had a shower, then tore into the chicken casserole, almost matching Norton plate for plate.
‘You sure can put it away for a little bloke, can’t you Woz,’ said Les, running a slice of Vogels around his empty plate.
‘You’re not a bad cook for a big hillbilly,’ replied Warren. ‘I always said there was a bit of old sheila in you. I was expecting fish, though.’
Norton laughed then got up and made some coffee; pouring them a cup each. ‘You going out tonight?’ he asked, as he sat back
down at the table.
‘I was, but I might give it a miss. I had a bit of a big one at the Sheaf last night. I got a little chick does a few jobs for Penthouse I can take out though — if I wanted to.’
‘Yeah? Oh well, no good going out romancin’ if you’re not up to it.’ Les poured some more coffee and eased himself back from the table. ‘Hey Warren, you like a smoke and a snort and that don’t you?’
‘Ohh yeah,’ replied Warren carefully. ‘I don’t mind the odd drug now and again. Why?’
‘You want some coke?’
‘Some cocaine?’ Warren gave Les a double blink.
‘Yeah. You want some? A chick owes me a favour, gave it to me up the Game the other night. I don’t use it so here, you can have it if you want.’ Norton took the foil package out of the top pocket of his Levi shirt and tossed it across the table to Warren. ‘I don’t know if it’s any good, though.’
‘Jeez thanks, Les.’ Warren picked up the Alfoil and began to unwrap it. ‘It sure looks all right,’ he said, squeezing some gently between his fingers. He looked up at Norton and smiled. ‘I might have a toot now.’
‘Go for your life.’
Warren went to his room, returning with a small shaving mirror and a tiny pocket-knife. He took a healthy scoop of cocaine, placed it on the mirror and began chopping and crushing it up with the heel of the pocket-knife. Norton watched with intrigue.
‘So that’s how you do it, eh.’
‘Yeah, got to crush all the rocks mate.’
‘And what would you jet-setting wombats pay for a deal of that?’
Warren stopped crushing the cocaine for a moment and looked at the Alfoil packet. ‘There’s at least a weight gram there. About $300.’
‘Three hundred dollars for that?’
‘Oh, shit yeah.’
‘So a kilogram of that shit’s worth 300 grand.’
‘I’m talking street price. A kilo’d probably cost 150 to 200 thousand. But by the time they step on it it’d bring half a million.’
‘What do you mean step on it?’
‘Cut it with Glucodin and Lactogen.’
Norton shook his head incredulously. ‘And they pay 300 bucks for that?’ He shook his head again. ‘There sure are some nice mugs around. And I’ve just given you 300 bucks worth. I’m puttin’ your rent up next week.’
Warren laughed. ‘It’s just God’s way of telling you you’ve got too much money.’
Satisfied the cocaine was crushed up finely enough, he formed the glistening powder into two white lines roughly the same length and size as a match-stick. He took a $20 bill from his pocket, rolled it into a tube and stuck it in his right nostril. ‘This is called having a toot, Les,’ he said, bending his head over the mirror. Holding the tube in one nostril with his right hand and blocking the other with his left he moved the tube slowly along one of the lines, sniffing it all deeply into his right nostril. Then he did the same with his left.
Norton watched carefully as he sat up. Nothing happened at first then Warren’s eyes seemed to bulge out like two pink medicine-balls — he jumped up from the table and let out one mighty roar. ‘Yaarrrhh!’
‘Jesus Christ Les!’ he yelled. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘Is it any good?’
‘Any good? It’s unbelievable. I feel like I’m 8 feet tall and I’m a genius.’
‘I’ll soon sort that out,’ laughed Norton, getting up from the table.
Warren sprang round in front of him. ‘All right you big goose. Out the back now. Come on.’ Warren started giggling and throwing punches at Norton; there wasn’t a lot of power in them but they seemed to come from everywhere.
‘Christ, you are off your head.’
Within a matter of minutes Warren had cleaned up all the mess in the kitchen, made a date with the girl from Penthouse, got changed into his best clobber and was hovering in front of Norton ready to go out. He’d been moving that fast his feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground.
‘Well, I’m on my way,’ he said, waving his hands around excitedly, his eyes still bulging out all over the place. ‘Don’t bother waiting up for me, Mum.’ He zoomed down the hallway almost leaving a vapour-trail. ‘Thanks for that Les,’ he called from the front door.
‘You’re welcome.’ The door slammed and the last thing Norton heard was the tyres on Warren’s Celica as he lay rubber halfway up Cox Avenue.
Les had a few cans, watched a movie on TV for a while then decided to have an early night. He slept quite soundly, though he did lie there deep in thought for a while at first. The numbers 150 to 200 thousand kept running through his brain.
He rose early the next morning and drove down to Centennial Park for a run, getting back about 8.30 to find Warren stumbling around the kitchen trying to make a cup of coffee. He was in an absolutely appalling state. His eyes were running like a couple of taps and his face looked like something you’d see on a pirate flag. Every few seconds he’d sneeze violently then sit there sniffing and mopping his eyes.
‘Have a good time last night?’ asked Les.
‘Yeah,’ croaked Warren feebly, sneezing again.
‘You look like a fuckin’ shithouse.’
‘I feel worse.’
‘Good stuff that coke, eh?’
‘At-choo.’
About an hour later Warren managed to make it out the front door to work. At 9.30 sharp, Norton rang Martin Reynolds.
‘Hello Marty. It’s your mate from yesterday. You want to talk a bit of business?’
‘Talk,’ was the brief reply.
‘Right. Well you know I’ve got something of yours and if you’re a real good bloke I might just let you have it back. And might I say it’s very high quality stuff too. I had it tested last night and I’d say there’s around 200 grand there — though by the time you vultures fill it full of powdered-milk and shit you’d be looking at closer to half a million.’
Reynolds didn’t say anything but Norton could feel the hatred and venom over the line.
‘I’m a reasonable man,’ continued Les, ‘and seein’ as you’re not a bad sort of a bloke I’ll let you have it back for 75 grand. Fair enough?’
‘How about I tell you to stick it in your arse and come looking for you, smarty?’
‘Well, you can do that too, but I’ll just turn it in to the cops along with your name and address and your mate T’s in Bolivia and if that didn’t fuck up your little operation I don’t know what would. I’d probably get a reward.’
There was a tense silence for a few moments at the other end of the line. ‘All right arseole, what do you want to do?’
‘You know the old gun emplacement at the top of McKenzies Point Bondi, opposite Marks Field?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll meet you there at 4.30 sharp this afternoon. I’ll be wearing a dark blue track-suit. You got that?’
‘Yeah. And I’m really looking forward to meeting you.’
‘Good. And like the man says on the TV: Bring your money with you.’
Norton hung up and stared thoughtfully at the phone for a few minutes. From the ominous tone of Reynolds’ voice when he made that last remark he thought it might be a good idea to make another phone call.
‘Hello Price. It’s Les. How are you?’
‘Good Les. What’s up?’
‘Nothing really. Is Eddie there?’
‘Sure. I’ll go get him.’
Norton waited patiently on the line while Price Galese went and got his number one hit-man. Eddie Salita.
‘Hello Les. What’s your trouble, son?’
‘Hello Eddie. How’s things? Listen, can you give me a hand for about 30 minutes this afternoon?’
‘Sure. Why, something wrong?’
‘Not really. I just gotta pick up some money off a bloke. There’s a bone in it for you.’
‘Yeah. Much meat on it?’
‘Five grand.’
‘Something.’
‘Right. Well, be at my place at four this aft
ernoon sharp. Bring a roscoe and I’ll tell you all about it then, okay?’
‘See you at 4 o’clock Les.’
Norton rang Billy Dunne and arranged to meet him down Gales Baths at 11.30 for a light workout and a swim, and maybe a couple of beers at the ’Bergs afterwards. He didn’t mention anything to Billy about the cocaine caper and left about three to go home and wait for Eddie Salita to arrive. Eddie arrived shortly before four.
‘Righto Les, what’s the story?’ he said, as he stepped briskly inside and seated himself comfortably on Norton’s ottoman lounge. He was wearing running-shoes, black jeans, a camouflage T-shirt and a loose fitting black wind-cheater. With a green sweat-band wrapped round his head he looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of Soldier of Fortune magazine. As he eased himself back on the lounge, Norton noticed the .38 police special in a holster tucked up under his left arm and the .22 automatic in a smaller ankle holster bulging under his black jeans.
Norton gave Eddie a brief outline on what had happened and what was about to go down, including the amount of $75,000, and how he needed him in case Reynolds brought his mate with him and tried something shifty; if there was any gun-play Eddie could sort it out. He offered him the $5000 and told him there was more there if he wanted it.
Eddie laughed villainously, eased himself back further into the lounge and flexed his arms, stretching every wiry muscle from his shoulders down to his finger tips. ‘Five grand’s all right for half an hour’s workout,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’d have done it for you for nothing Les, you know that. But I may as well cop the five.’
‘Good on you Eddie. Thanks mate.’
‘Sounds like a piece of piss anyway if you ask me,’ said Eddie rising from the lounge and zipping up his windcheater. ‘But if something happens and I do have to knock them we’ll just toss them straight over the cliffs, get a boat and pick them up in the morning.’ Norton nodded in agreement. Eddie smiled and threw Les an easy wink, but there was 12 months in the jungles of Vietnam in his eyes and business written all over his face. ‘Let’s go then,’ he nodded his head towards the door. ‘Your car or mine?’
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