Robert G. Barrett was raised in Bondi where he has worked mainly as a butcher. After thirty years he moved to Terrigal on the Central Coast of New South Wales. Robert has appeared in a number of films and TV commercials but prefers to concentrate on a career as a writer.
Also by Robert G. Barrett in Pan
YOU WOULDN’T BE DEAD FOR QUIDS
THE REAL THING
THE BOYS FROM BINJIWUNYAWUNYA
THE GODSON
BETWEEN THE DEVLIN AND THE DEEP BLUE SEAS
DA VO’S LITTLE SOMETHING
AND DE FUN DON’T DONE
MELE KALIKIMAKA MR WALKER
THE DAY OF THE GECKO
RIDER ON THE STORM AND OTHER BITS AND BARRETT
GUNS ’N’ ROSÉ
ROBERT G.
BARRETT
White shoes,
white lines and
Blackie
This is a work of fiction and all characters in this book are a creation of the author’s imagination
First published 1992 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Publishers Australia This edition published by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited 1 Market St, Sydney
Reprinted 1992, 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 1998, 2000, 2002, 2004, 2005, 2008, 2011
Copyright © Robert G. Barrett 1992
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:
Barrett, Robert G.
White shoes, white lines and blackie.
ISBN 9780330273701
EBOOK ISBN 9781743549056
1. Title
A823.3
Typeset in 10/11pt Times Roman by Post Typesetters Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
The author would like to thank the following people for a laugh and their help in getting this book together: A1 Baldwin, Surfers Paradise, Queensland; Paul Tjientjin, Dirranbandi, Queensland; and Sheila Martin, Granite Falls, North Carolina, USA.
As usual, the author is giving a percentage of his royalties to Greenpeace.
This book is dedicated to Marguirite Therese, the Jane Russell of Auckland.
The Hakoah Club in Bondi is a very, very nice club, frequented by very, very nice members and their guests; mainly Eastern suburbs citizens of the Jewish faith. Set where Hall Street rises past the post office, you walk up a small set of wide, white marble steps, through the glass door and into a cool, bright foyer; reception and phones on the right, doorman and guests’ book on the left. The floor then gently rises past a small, angled fountain, set beneath a large copper Menorah candelabrum to take you into the main drinking and dining area. There’s a poker-machine room on your left, a bar, a lengthy servery full of choice foods, staffed by polite staff, then a check-out lady and coffee machine next to a large cabinet full of cream-stuffed cakes and other calorie-drenched delicacies.
The hot-food servery faces another, crammed with beautiful, crisp salads; a number of chairs and tables in between. The salad servery is backed by a long padded seat in a kind of motley green and topped with indoor plants set in a frosted-glass surround. This faces across more chairs and tables to where a length of folding glass doors opens up onto another area full of chairs and tables full of middle-aged or elderly men and women, reading, eating or talking over coffee. Most of the men wear thick-rimmed glasses, and some have beards. The women are dark-eyed, with lacquered hair and matching twin-sets with fat backsides and matching fat ankles.
Noisy but happy kids wearing yamulkas dart around the chairs and tables, and now and again a smiling teenage boy will walk through carrying a backpack or a soccer ball, his shin-guards still jammed precariously in his socks, to be met by teenage girls in track-suits carrying gymbags. The low, gold-painted ceiling and muted lighting make for a nice, relaxed, law-abiding atmosphere. Exactly the kind of place you would expect to find nice, law-abiding Jewish people of various nationalities, enjoying a quiet drink, a coffee, or a meal with friends.
Definitely not the kind of place you would expect to find a low-life thug, extortionist, robber and now part-time bouncer like Les Norton. A man who, in the short space of time he’d been in the Eastern suburbs, had probably rolled over more Jewish landlords and estate agents than Rommel’s Panzer Division. But there he was. In a pair of jeans, Nikes, and a white Save-Antarctica T-shirt, seated where the long padded seat faces the folding glass doors, a slice of Sacher chocolate cake sitting on a table in front of him, next to a cup of coffee that strong, Norton reckoned, if it had been any stronger it would have jumped out of the cup and started doing push-ups.
Actually, Norton liked the Hakoah Club. A friend of his nominated him, so he joined; and it was one of the best moves he ever made. It was barely five minutes walk from his house, and although he wasn’t all that interested in the heated pool, the saunas and spas, it was quiet, the beer was cold, and, being a good tooth-man, Les didn’t mind the food; especially the veal bakony, the potato latkes and the banks of crisp, fresh salads, as much as you want at the right price. Now and again Norton might bump into one of his old landlords or an estate agent he’d brassed but he’d always give them a polite if somewhat thin smile. Norton’s thin smile, though, would invariably be returned by one thinner than the cabbage soup their unfortunate relations got in the death camps during the Second World War.
However, on this particular occasion, Norton wasn’t smiling that much at all, thin or otherwise. In fact for all the interest he was taking in his fresh coffee and slice of delicious chocolate cake, Les might as well have been sipping rusty tap-water and eating a five-day-old scone. Yes, thought Norton, as his gaze shifted disconsolately towards the ceiling just above his head, where cracks of red undercoat were pushing through the gold, that’s just like me, isn’t it. My heart and emotions bleeding through the cracks of my shattered life. Les Norton, the simple country boy from Queensland, was in the middle of another love affair turned sour.
To be honest, everything had been going along cosy and the whole thing wasn’t even Norton’s idea; it was Warren’s. The caper with the old block of flats had gone over smoother than a bunch of carnations on Mothers’ Day. The only people who knew the truth were Les and the two Romanians. He’d settled everything with the tenants; all he had to do now was wait for the insurance money, which was just a matter of two government departments getting their act together. How long that would take Norton didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to make any unnecessary waves. He had the money he’d ripped off from the bikies, and even though he was half joking, Price did weigh in the $50,000; probably to keep Norton completely on side.
Oddly enough, despite being completely oblivious to what had happened, Price seemed to have found a new respect for his trusted employee and friend. Even if at times he would wish Norton to the shithouse. Especially if Les took a turn working some nights and would remark to Price when they were leaving the club, always in front of Price’s friends, ‘You know what this place needs, Price? A few nice paintings. Give it a bit of class.’ And always one of Price’s friends would agree and Les would add, ‘Now that you’ve got a bit of time, you should have a look around. You never know, you might pick a couple up at the right price, Price.’
And the silvery haired casino owner would just blink at Norton impassively till Les walked him to his car. Then he’d say, ‘One of these days, you red-headed cunt, I’m going to kick you right in the nuts. You know that — don’t you?’
So everything was moving along splendidly. Norton had money, a night or two at the club just to keep his hand in, and plenty of time to train and just do his thing. Until Warren tipped him into Annie.
Annie was an Indian pommy who worked in her cousin Gianna’s Indian takeaway food shop, Let’s All Japardi, at Maroubra Junction. Annie was about twenty-two and no oil-painting, though she had a whippy sort of body and nice legs plus a fair sense of humour. The Indian girl with an accent straight out of ‘Minder’ got Les in at first. Warren had been having an affair with Gianna, who lived with her boyfriend, an electrical contractor who worked about ninety hours a week and was always too tired to go out. Gianna didn’t mind doing a bit of porking on the side, and Warren wasn’t adverse to porking someone’s wife or girlfriend behind their spouse’s back if it was offered to him. But the only way Gianna could get out was with Annie in tow as chaperone. So it always had to be a foursome. Which was where Les came in.
Gianna was the better sort of the two; a hot body, dark, sexy eyes and matching long dark hair. And Warren was getting a bit keen, sneaking her back to the house at every opportunity with or without Annie. But for the life of him, Norton couldn’t seem to get keen on Annie. She was a good-hearted girl, always bringing food and other odds and ends round to the house, where unlike her cousin, Annie could come and go as she pleased. She’d buy Norton little presents and Les always felt self-conscious about accepting them because he knew Annie didn’t make all that much money and he had heaps. Yet the more Norton would protest the more Annie would warm to him, thinking, Oh, isn’t he such a lovely man. Not like those right cadgers I knew at home. Before long Annie had a hairdryer in the bathroom and a couple of pairs of stockings hanging in the laundry. But the keener Annie got on Les, the more Norton was finding himself dropping off.
Norton wasn’t quite sure what was turning him away from Annie and causing him all this torment. Being a dud root didn’t help her much. In fact Annie wasn’t just a low number in the sack, she was probably the worst root Les had ever had. Norton would hammer away, like he was putting up a thirty-storey office tower and Annie would lay there with her arms spread across the bed, eyes closed, mouth open catching flies, and a kind of ‘ravish me, take my body, I’m yours’ look on her face. She couldn’t tongue kiss, she didn’t like any trick shots, and blow jobs were against her religion. Norton even bought a new set of supercharged power-pack batteries for Mr Buzz and she didn’t like that either. Norton was even forced to remark to Warren one morning that he didn’t know what Gianna was like in the sack, but as far as Annie went, you’d have more fun bonking a speed-hump. Of course Annie might have been having the time of her life having multiple orgasms one after the other. But if she was, she certainly never let on and she never mentioned it to Les. She might have. But if she did, Les certainly couldn’t remember. So that wasn’t helping their relationship much.
Being a half-baked wog didn’t worry Les. Or a pommy either. There was definitely no racism involved, though it wasn’t a bad quinella if you were a bigot. The main thing gnawing away at Norton’s soul though, was the smell. No matter what she did, Annie always ponged of curry. She’d call round after work with all these little do-dads from the restaurant, and as soon as Les opened the door it was like they’d just landed at Bombay airport. Norton reckoned he could smell her as soon as her car pulled up. Coming back from the beach or straight out of the shower and liberally splashed with 4711, Annie still smelled like fifty kilograms of chicken vindaloo. One night in a frenzy of unbridled passion and drunken lust, Norton stuck his face into Annie’s ted and went for it like a hungry pack-wolf. Even it stunk of curry. And for all the difference it made, Les might as well have been reading Annie the used-car section in the Herald classifieds.
No, sexually or otherwise, it definitely wasn’t the happiest scene round Chez Norton at the moment, and something was going to have to give. Warren could move out and shack up with Gianna. Les would get a room in a boarding house. Or he’d sell the house and move to Dhinnabarrada Mission, Antarctica; anywhere to get away from the smell of curry. He began to hint to Warren that he wasn’t all that rapt in the two vindaloo queens, and how long did Warren expect this thing between him and Gianna to continue? Besides, porking some bloke’s girl behind his back while the poor mug’s out working his ring off wasn’t actually cricket, and Norton wasn’t keen on being a party to such underhanded shenanigans. Also, if the boyfriend got wind and came round to punch Warren’s lights out, the debonair young advertising executive could sort it out for himself. The band-aids were in the bathroom, next to the iodine.
But Warren didn’t seem to take the hint, and continued to bonk blissfully away, everything all going over his head. Nevertheless, it was going to have to end. But bloody how? Which was why, on a pleasant Wednesday afternoon, the second week in March, instead of enjoying a piece of chocolate Sacher cake and coffee at the Hakoah Club, Norton was staring up at the ceiling, lost in pain and thought and wondering why life had to continually deal him such misery and tear his heart out.
It was probably for this reason Norton didn’t notice the figure standing at his table holding a cup of coffee and an apricot Danish. A neat figure in his late twenties, around five feet six, slightly pudgy, wearing smart grey trousers, expensive grey shoes and a white shirt. A gold Longines quartz sat on his left wrist and a gold-banded diamond ring glittered on his right hand. Loose black hair covered his ears and collar, and wisped slightly over a pudgy but happy sort of face and pudgy but happy sort of mouth. A small yet thick nose had no trouble supporting a pair of brown steel-rimmed glasses, behind which peered a pair of inquisitive brown eyes set under thick, dark eyebrows.
‘Hello, Les. How’s things?’
Norton’s gaze fell away from the ceiling. ‘KK,’ he answered, a little absently. ‘How are you?’
‘Not too bad. Mind if I join you?’
‘No, no, go for your life.’ Norton shuffled slightly in his seat and moved his coffee to one side of the table.
KK was Kelvin Kramer, a good Jewish boy if ever there wasn’t one. The only word to describe KK was conman — with a capital K. He originally came from Melbourne, settled in Sydney with his family, who had money, then gravitated on his own to the Gold Coast. Surfers Paradise in particular. KK always had a scam going. A device to make your car run on water and give you at least a hundred miles per gallon. Cream to give men a bigger dick. Irresistible male scent that would have women throwing pussy at you like frisbees. An ointment for women guaranteed to give them bigger boobs, take the grey out of their hair, renew the fillings in their teeth and make them look at least twenty years younger. A Tibetan elixir promised to flush every impurity from your system, improve your memory, make you lose weight and fix your aching back. Just send $20 plus postage to box so-and-so, Surfers Paradise. Anything. KK would put his grandmother on a slave block if he thought there was an earn in it. It was rumoured he even sold a pair of ice-skates to a woman who had just lost both her legs in a car accident, and a saxophone to a miner with a collapsed lung. Scruples, ethics or a sense of fair play definitely weren’t part of Kelvin Kramer’s make-up, and despite coming from a fairly decent family, KK’s standing in the Jewish community couldn’t have been any lower if he’d been related to Joseph Mengle.
KK’s other claim to fame was an American starlet and model he’d been squiring around New York for a while, Crystal Linx, a blonde bimbo with an enormous pair of boobs who’d posed for a heap of cheesecake and had a few minor parts in some B-grade thrillers. Crystal had cut a single that blipped fleetingly on the charts, but despite this she was cutting another and possibly an album. Her main talent, however, was her monstrous set. Stories about KK were always turning in the media, and photos of him alongs
ide Crystal in the glossies or whatever else turned up in Australia from overseas. He got nicked in London for fraud — sonar walking-sticks for the blind that got about thirty people run over — and he just got out by the skin of his teeth. Now along with being Crystal’s squeeze, he was running around America promoting Queen Witchetty Grub Royal Jelly. One hundred per cent guaranteed to cure everything from dandruff to Legionnaires disease.
It would have been at least a year since Les had last seen KK. He came up the game a few times with his brother and a couple of mates for a laugh and a splash. Which was one thing you could say about KK, he loved a splash and was generally always good for a laugh. His brother Menachem, or Manny as most people called him, was a different kettle of fish altogether. Where KK was dark and pudgy, Manny was one of those hard, lean Israelis with scrubby red hair and piercing blue eyes. Manny had also been a lieutenant in the Israeli paratroopers, and was one tough, fit bastard. Eddie had known him for years and, being a warrior also, they were fairly good mates. Manny even trained with the boys a few times and it didn’t take them long to realise he knew every trick there was to either disable you, cripple you for life or leave you dead on the spot, if you took him too lightly.
Oddly enough, Manny’s name had just come up the day before at Eddie’s house in Edgecliffe. Les was round helping Eddie put a new roller-door up in his garage, and Eddie mentioned that Manny had been nicked the day before in Perth with a case of Uzis, travelling on an Israeli passport as a member of the Mossad. Where Eddie got his information Les didn’t know; there were quite a few things about Eddie Les didn’t particularly wish to know. It had been hushed up, but at the present time, Menachem was well and truly a guest of Her Majesty’s Commonwealth Police. Now here was his young brother, about a year on. Still, thought Norton, with all his doings between here, the US and the UK, Kelvin’s probably a busy boy. It was a bit of a buzz to see him though, and momentarily took Norton’s mind off what was troubling him.
White Shoes, White Lines and Blackie Page 1