The magazines were Spanish. Well, that figures, thought Norton. Adds a little ‘ambience’ to the restaurant besides the empty plonk bottles and the old posters. But if the words were different the pictures were the same as in any el cheapo Australian tabloid. Drunken rock stars caught with their pants down, police raids, gory murders, plane crashes. Plenty of tits and bums and ads for clothes, cars, after-shave, erotic videos etc.
Norton ho-hummed through the first and started flicking idly through the second. Much the same fare though some photos of a sky-diver losing his parachute, a shipwreck, and a big heroin bust in Marseilles caught his eye. Something on a page with a big, glossy ad for men’s clothes caught his eye too. Jeans, shirts, shoes etc. But not having much of an idea of Spanish, Les shrugged it off and flicked to the next. Norton didn’t have to speak Spanish to recognise what was on the next two pages — Crystal Linx splashed across both of them. Hello, chuckled Norton, it’s the girl herself. Then he started giving the double page spread double blinks.
There was a smaller photo of Crystal on the left in all her glory from the waist up. Giant, enormous tits just sitting there with two lovely pink nipples jutting out in front. The two other, larger, photos were a lot different, however. They were taken through a tele-photo lens on a lawn near a swimming pool, with what looked like some kind of a white painted villa out of focus in the background. Crystal was side on, sitting topless on a cushioned banana-chair, wearing a black string bikini with her hair in a pony-tail. Opposite and talking to her was a tanned, fit blonde also sitting topless on a cushioned banana-chair, wearing a blue, rolled down one-piece costume. The other photo was Crystal laying on her back asleep on a banana-chair. What caused Norton’s double blinks was, compared to her girlfriend’s and the ones in the smaller photo, Crystal’s tits looked like two fried quayle’s eggs smeared with peanut oil. Norton sipped his coffee and stared at the photos.
It seemed to be some kind of resort or a very exclusive villa. Apart from Crystal and her girlfriend there were hardly any other people around and Les could just make out a sign. ‘Privado. Prohibido tomar fotographias’. You didn’t have to be a United Nations interpreter to figure out what that meant. He flicked to the front cover. Ferbrero. The magazine was barely a month old. Les stared at the Spanish by-lines and the story, but apart from maybe a word here and there it all went over his head. Those photos didn’t though. Those tits lying on the banana-chair definitely weren’t the ones in the smaller photo on the left. Or the ones that came bursting through the door at Brisbane airport on Friday. Or the ones he’d been perving on in the casino and in the restaurants or at his flat. They were sweet bugger all. Barely a handful in both of them sitting on two rolls of midriff. As a pin-up you wouldn’t have given her a feed. And Norton was blowing up about the swimming pool at the flats being drained. If he’d have seen those, he’d have drained it himself.
Norton stared at the photos and finished his coffee. Privado. Prohibido fotographias. What did that woman journalist say at Brisbane airport? ‘Crystal, have you just spent a month in a European clinic?’ Something else made Les scratch at his chin. Drained the pool himself. Mermaid Pool Service. The empty pool? Norton slowly shook his head. Something besides Kelvin Kramer definitely wasn’t too kosher here. Les gently tore the two pages out and put them in his pocket.
He paid the bill, thanking the lady for a fine meal, bought a Cherry Ripe and walked back to the car. The two old petrol bowsers out front of the cafe caught his eye — might be a good idea to fill up again. He topped up the tank, thanked the smiling Spanish lady again then drove back to the little park near the bridge. The sun was well and truly setting when he pulled up. He moved the car in a bit further, this time under some trees, got out and sat on the bonnet facing the river and chewed on his Cherry Ripe while he waited for Murray. Although he’d be up to his neck in trouble before long, Les kept thinking about those photos he’d now placed in his overnight-bag sitting in the car. Somehow the main thrust of his thoughts kept drifting back to the empty pool at that block of flats in Surfers. Les was still thinking on this when he thought he heard a slight noise behind him. It wasn’t much and Norton was too deep in thought to turn around when a quiet voice almost next to his ear nearly made him jump off the bonnet.
‘Well, here I am, Les. Right on time.’ It was Murray.
Les blinked. ‘Murray! Shit! Where the fuck did you come from?’
‘From my place,’ grinned Murray. ‘Where else?’
It wasn’t just the quietness of Murray’s approach that surprised Les, nor the fact that he was wearing dark blue, long-sleeved overalls, it was probably the first time he could ever remember seeing his brother without a hat. Murray was sitting on one of the strangest looking motorbikes Les had ever seen. It looked more like an aqua-scooter with a long black seat, one fat wheel at the front and two at the back about a metre and a half apart. Behind the seat and across the two back wheels was a covered metal carrying space, like a big tool-box. All along the sides, across the carrying space and just about everywhere, right up to the handle-bars, was covered in solar-cells that didn’t quite look like solar-cells. There was a light at the front and several on the back that weren’t turned on, and its junky, angled yet smooth finish gave the thing a very futuristic appearance.
‘What the fuck’s that?’ asked Les. ‘It looks like something out of the Transformers.’
‘This,’ Murray gave the handlebars a pat, ‘is a SPATV. A solar-powered all terrain vehicle.’
‘Yeah?’ Les walked inquisitively around the strange looking vehicle. ‘Where the bloody hell did you get it?’
‘The kids made it.’
Les blinked. ‘Your kids? My nephews?’
‘Bloody oath!’ Murray climbed off the SPATV, folded his arms and looked at it proudly. ‘You’re not going to believe this, Uncle Les, but Wayne and Mitchell are half-baked computer geniuses. They hate fuckin’ TV — thank Christ! And they’re bored shitless with videos. So me and Elaine got them a computer each. And they’re like two mad scientists. They’ve even got me in, playing silly bloody war video games and working out rocket trajectories and all this other space-age shit. They drive me nuts at times.’
Les shook his head. ‘Well, I’ll be buggered.’
‘They knocked this thing up out of an old jet-ski we used on the river and a dune-buggy I got from the council.’ Murray ran his hands along the sides. ‘But you see these solar panels. They’ve re-invented them. They’re halogenous as well. So they hold twice as much power.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Les dumbly. ‘I thought they might have been.’
‘And have a look at this.’ Murray opened a panel near the back carry space. ‘You see that. That’s a motor out of a little weed-eater and a tiny generator. When the batteries run down, you kick that in for half an hour, it charges them up and they never go flat.’
‘Shit! It’s only little, isn’t it?’
‘Yep,’ agreed Murray, closing the panel. ‘They’re all worrying about inventing electric cars. These are the go — motorbikes, with a little engine to recharge the batteries.’ Murray opened another panel to show Les the petrol tank; a two-litre plastic bottle. ‘It’s expensive to run though. A couple of litres of two-stroke lasts you about six months.’ Murray shut the panel and stood back. ‘It’s completely noiseless, virtually pollution free. It does about 80 kilometres on the flat and you can just about drive it forever. What do you reckon?’
Les stepped back to have another good look. ‘I don’t believe it. Geniuses in my family.’
Murray winked at his brother. ‘We might even patent it. Wouldn’t the oil companies spew if something like this hit the market?’
‘Just a bit,’ nodded Les.
Murray watched for a moment as Les ran his hands over the solar panels. ‘Well, I suppose you want to know what my plan is for tonight?’
‘Yeah,’ answered Les. ‘I wouldn’t mind having half an idea of what you’re getting me into.’
Murray
opened the carry space at the back, took out a pair of overalls same as his and tossed them to Les. ‘Here. Get into these. There’ll be a bit of blood and guts floating around tonight — and I wouldn’t want to see you get that nice white T-shirt dirty.’
While Les got into the overalls, Murray explained his plan. It sounded simple. ‘We go out on the SPATV, take us about thirty minutes from here to their camp. We pull up about half a k away and walk. There’s a little ridge just above their camp. We shoot the six of them, dump the bodies and all their junk in the back of their Land Rover and drive up to the old opal mine. All the charges are still set up. We put the vehicle and the sons of Mohammed in the middle. And bang! Up goes the opal mine and down go the boys — about sixty feet. Truck, wooden crate, prayer mats, the lot. With about two hundred ton of rock and soil all over them. No one’ll ever find the bastards. Like I said, they’ll just disappear.’ Murray grinned at his brother. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Sounds terrific, Murray,’ said Les, buttoning up the front of his overalls. ‘And what are we going to shoot them with — laser-powered ray-guns? It’s gonna be pitch fuckin’ black in about another five minutes.’
‘Almost as good.’ Murray reached back into the carry space and pulled out what looked like some kind of cut-down assault rifle. ‘You’ll love these, Les. Ruger Mini-14s.’ Murray grinned. ‘You ought to see what they do to a pig or a wild dog. Forget about what those fuckin’ tea-towel-heads did to old Brumby. When we’re finished with the bludgers, there won’t be enough left to bait a mouse trap.’ Les looked at the Mini-14 in his brother’s hands. ‘Hey, did you buy these off Eddie?’
‘Yeah. About six months ago.’
Les nodded. ‘I thought so. He mentioned something about you buying a couple of rifles off him. He didn’t say much though.’
‘That’s what I like about your mate Eddie. He don’t elaborate.’
Les took the Mini-14 from his brother and familiarised himself with its feel. It was roughly a metre long from the rear pistol-grip to the end of the barrel. It had a solid wooden stock, with another pistol-grip at the front and a sliding metal shoulder stock at the back. Under the front sight, folded alongside the stock, was a metal bi-pod. Just by holding it and moving it from side to side, Les knew it was some weapon all right.
‘You know anything about Ruger Mini-14s, Les?’ asked Murray.
‘Yeah sure,’ answered Les. ‘Me and Warren always keep about half a dozen laying around the house in case the woman across the road might drop in for a cup of tea.’
Murray ignored his brother’s reply. ‘All right, well I won’t go into all the full-on ordnance bullshit but they’re fuckin’ unreal. They’re a sort of modified version of the M1-Garand or the M-14 the Yanks first used in Vietnam. It takes a .223, same as the M-16, but these are semiautomatic, they ain’t rock ’n’ roll.’ Murray took a slightly curved magazine from the SPATV and clipped it beneath the rifle in Les’s hands. ‘That’s a thirty-shot clip. I’ll give you four. Not that you’ll need them but… you never know. Now…’ Murray took what looked like a black, stainless-steel bike-pump from the carry space and started screwing it on the end. ‘Silencer,’ he smiled. ‘Or ‘suppressor unit’, as the yanks like to call them.’ This made the rifle about fifteen inches longer. Murray’s smile got bigger. ‘But like they say on TV, “And that’s not all”.’ From the carry space he took what looked like half of a fat pair of binoculars, with a couple of buttons and switches on it and a short length of cable. ‘You’re gonna love this, Les,’ he said, as he expertly began sliding, screwing and clamping it on top of the rear sights. ‘It’s a IEHSLNS.’
‘I thought that’s what it might have been,’ said Les, looking at it like it was a Chinese menu written in Cantonese.
‘Image Enhancing Heat Seeking Laser Night Scope. From Otics Defence Accessories, Durango, Colorado. US of goddam A. In other words, Les, night-sight, makes you see in the dark. And makes sure you don’t miss.’
‘Christ! Where the fuck did you get this shit?’ asked Les. The Mini-14 was now a little heavier and slightly bulkier, but by no means awkward or unwieldly.
‘Off this bloke in Brisbane. There’s gonna be a big war in the Middle East soon, Les, and this is part of the night-fighting gear the Yanks are going in with. Our blokes haven’t even got this yet.’
‘Bloody hell!’
Murray took the front of the gun and pulled down the bi-pod. They’re Harris bi-pods too. Best you can get.’ Murray stepped back and looked at the weapon in his brother’s hands. ‘Well. What do you reckon?’
Les cradled the weapon, took it by the two pistol-grips, held it up to his shoulder and looked along the sights. ‘Hey, not bad, Muzz. I feel like the Terminator.’
‘Now come over by the river.’
Still carefully holding the rifle, Les followed his brother over to the riverbank. Murray picked up two pieces of broken branch, rubbed them vigorously together for a few seconds then flung one out into the murky blackness of the Balonne. Les heard the splash and even though the moon was out, in the darkness he was stuffed if he could see the piece of branch floating on the water.
Murray pressed a button and clicked a switch on the night scope. ‘Now take a look.’
Les peered through the sight and could hardly believe his eyes. It wasn’t quite as clear as broad daylight, more like you were watching every thing on a black-and-white TV with not the best reception. But for pitch blackness it was quite amazing. The river was now a distinct grey. He could pick out leaves, ripples on the water, and the movements of insects and animals near the river bank. The branch Murray had thrown in the water was clearly visible as it slowly drifted along, and the part Murray had rubbed appeared to be glowing. As Les zeroed in, a red dot appeared everywhere he aimed the cross-hairs of the night scope.
‘Okay, Les,’ he heard his brother say, ‘rip off five shots.’
Les eased back the cocking lug, slid the safety off, held both pistol-grips and gently squeezed the trigger. There was a bit of a thump in his shoulder that the folding stock easily absorbed, a pop-pop-pop-pop-pop sound and the piece of branch disintegrated in the night scope in a distinct spray of water and flying pieces of wood. The only sound was the whack-whack of the bullets hitting the branch and echoing off the riverbank in the darkness. Les took his eyes from the sights, smelt the cordite in the air as he peered into what was once again darkness, then turned to his brother.
‘Jesus! How good was that?’
Murray’s grin flashed white in the night but there was pure evil in his eyes. ‘Like I told you, Les, those tea-towel-heads want to fuck round with the Nortons, they got two chances. None and Buckley’s.’
Les followed his brother back to the SPATV. Murray showed him one or two more things while Les further familiarised himself with the Mini-14. But it didn’t take him long to realise you could get a baboon out of Taronga Zoo and make it an expert marksman with one of these outfits. Murray explained a few things more Les would need to know, then looked at his watch.
‘Well, what do you reckon, we get going?’
‘Yeah, righto,’ agreed Les. ‘The sooner we get this shit sorted out, the sooner we can be back home, sitting on our arses with a cold beer.’
‘Okay then,’ grinned Murray. ‘Let’s make a move.’
Les put the Mini-14 back in the carry tray, closed the lid, hopped on the back of the SPATV and they headed off.
Murray drove back out of the park and across the bridge, went about three kilometres along the road then turned right into the scrub along an old trail Les remembered as a kid. There was scarcely any sound from the strange little vehicle, except the crunching of dirt and twigs and a slight whining from the motor, something like a dodgem car. Knowing just about every inch of the narrow trail, Murray kept the lights off. He didn’t drive fast, barely twenty kilometres an hour, and the fat tyres took the bumps easily. The wind in Norton’s hair was just a soft breeze and if it hadn’t been for the fact they were going out to
slaughter six men it would have been no more than an enjoyable drive through the moonlit outback night. Les wondered if the terrorists would have a guard posted, but doubted it; after shooting up old Brumby they’d have figured he was just some old hermit and think no more about it. There was a slim chance they might find the old opal mine in the scrub, but if they did they probably wouldn’t take much notice of that either. Murray seemed to think the six men wouldn’t be around all that long doing whatever it was they were doing and they’d be keeping low key, then moving along. Though what six Arab terrorists were doing in Dirranbandi of all places was anybody’s guess.
Neither man said a word; Murray appeared to be concentrating on the trail and Les was alone with his own thoughts. Before long, Murray pulled up on the SPATV with no more noise then a pushbike, about half a kilometre in from the river.
‘Okay, Les,’ he said, keeping his voice down, ‘they’re about half a k over there. Follow me.’
Silently, Murray opened the carry tray and took out the two Mini-14s. He adjusted all the attachments, making sure everything was ready to go, and handed one to Les along with three extra clips of bullets which Les placed in his overalls. Then Les noticed Murray take what looked like a flare pistol in a leather holster out of the carry tray and strap it round his waist. He didn’t say anything to Les as he did this, just gave him an odd smile.
‘Okay, Les. Let’s go. I’ll tell you what to do when we get there.’ Les nodded and they set off.
Both brothers knew how to walk slowly and silently in the bush, whether it was day or night. Les could feel his adrenalin rising now and was starting to get a bit of a buzz. Whether it was a cruel, callous streak in him he wasn’t sure, but he was now looking forward to this, and the gun in his arms had a feel about it he couldn’t quite put into words. Besides that, it would be nice to waste the six rotten bastards who tried to murder his brother. Like Murray said, you don’t stuff with the Nortons. Not on their home turf especially. They came to a bit of ridge, Murray made a gesture with his hand and very slowly, very quietly, they half crawled, half walked to the top of the rise.
White Shoes, White Lines and Blackie Page 18