‘I might see if I can find a glass of water,’ said Les. Hank nodded without looking up.
An open door from the office led straight into the warehouse. It too was dusty and stale and smelled of neglect; the only difference was it was twice as hot as the office. There were bigger shelves round the walls, all bare, a carpeted, metal table in the middle for packing on and a roller door and chain at the back. Flattened cardboard cartons were either stacked or lying around the floor amid shredded paper, rags and other waste for packaging. One match said the one small fire extinguisher on the wall next to a clock that didn’t work would last about two seconds if it ever got going. It was a dump. There was a toilet and sink, however, which wasn’t too filthy. Les found a cup, cleaned it and was wandering around sipping a second glass of water when he heard the front door open and a woman’s voice. Les approached the doorway to the office and held back against a rack of shelves. Hank appeared to be in an argument with a pixie-faced brunette who had just dumped a pile of letters on his desk. She was tall, quite attractive, a neat body and neat short hair, and was wearing a T-shirt and cut-away jeans. Her voice had the same twang as the bloke who put the heavies on Hank in Club BandBox.
‘For the last goddamn time, Hank, I do not want you to use the condo as an office address. How many times do I have to tell you? You dumb prick. I’m not telling you again.’
‘Oh, for chrissake, Laverne, what’s wrong with you?’
‘Hey. It’s not what’s wrong with me. It’ll be what’s wrong with you if Ricco finds out. He’ll have your ass, you dumb shit. And, frankly, I think it would be a good thing. The condo is not for letters or phone calls. You got that, Hank — you jerk.’ Hank seemed to be muttering something as he fiddled around behind his desk while the brunette glared at him. ‘Now, where’s this aussie guy you said was coming out here to stay with you? I gotta see this.’
Norton figured this might be as good a time as ever for him to enter stage left. Nonchalantly sipping his cup of water, he stepped into the office and caught the brunette’s eye. ‘Hello. How are you?’ he smiled. ‘You must be Laverne?’ Norton offered his hand. ‘I’m Les.’
The brunette gave Norton a very healthy once up and down and a double blink. ‘Well, nice to meet you, Les,’ she said, giving Norton’s hand a squeeze.
‘You too, Laverne.’ Norton thought he might as well lay on a little charm. ‘Hank’s mother told me a little bit about you. But I didn’t think you were this pretty.’
Laverne seemed to stare at Les. ‘You’re staying at Hank’s place?’
‘Yeah. I got a room near the kitchen. It’s… okay.’
Laverne now seemed to be thinking as well as staring. ‘How long are you here for, Les?’
Norton shrugged. ‘About three weeks.’
‘Three weeks. Staying at Hank’s.’ Laverne’s eyes narrowed. ‘Les, I don’t hardly know you but I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse. And you can do me a favour at the same time.’ She took two keys on a ring from her bag. ‘Hank. There’s the keys to the condo. Take Les out there.’ She dropped the keys on the desk and turned back to Les. ‘You can have my condo for the three weeks you’re here, Les. Look after it and I don’t want anybody in there but you. You got that, Hank? Put Les up in the condo. You’ll love it, Les. It’s in a nice area and it’s got a pool. I’ll call out there and see you.’ Laverne snapped her purse closed, looking like she didn’t want to be in Hank’s company any longer than she had to. ‘Okay, I’m out of here, Hank. And remember what I told you. Dummy.’ She gave Les another smile. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Les.’
Norton was a little bewildered. ‘Yeah. See you, Laverne. And thanks.’ For bloody what, he thought.
Hank didn’t bother to say goodbye. Laverne disappeared out the door. Norton decided he’d better find out what was going on. He knew if he didn’t ask, Hank sure as hell wouldn’t tell him.
‘What’s all this about a condo, Hank? What the fuck’s a condo? A car? A caravan?’
Hank tried to look busy with some letters. ‘It’s a dump. It’s out towards town. A crappy apartment.’
Norton knitted his eyebrows. Condo, apartment, letters, pool? ‘Hank, are you telling me Laverne’s given me the use of a flat while I’m here? With a pool?’
‘It’s a dump. She wanted me to live there. The pool’s about as big as a bath tub. It’s full of chemicals and everybody pisses in it.’
‘I don’t give a fuck if the local circus takes the elephants up there and washes them in it. It couldn’t be any… At least let’s go and have a look at it.’ Norton couldn’t believe his luck. Hank’s ex evidently owned a home unit somewhere and Hank was using it as a mail drop. She could have felt sorry for Les, knowing what a prick Hank was, so she’d let him stay there to keep an eye on the place and sort of kill two birds with the one stone. Whichever way, it meant getting out of Swamp Manor and freedom from Captain Rats.
‘I can’t just drop everything and take you straight over,’ said Hank. ‘I do have a business to run. Besides, I thought you wanted to go riding along the beach?’
‘Well, yeah,’ shrugged Norton. ‘But it ain’t that important.’
‘I’ll get a bike and come with you. I said I could if I wanted.’
‘Please yourself.’
‘I’ll get a bike this afternoon. And we’ll go for a ride on the beach.’
‘Okay. Then we’ll go and have a look at that condo, or whatever you call it. When do you want to leave here?’
‘As soon as I clear this up.’
This took about an hour of Hank trying to look like he was doing something and Les shuffling restlessly around in the heat, but still pondering his good luck. Bad luck he had to stay sweet with Boofhead so he could get the keys and a lift over. But not for much longer. Then he could dump the idiot for good. Eventually Hank picked up his keys and turned on the answering service.
‘So where are we going now?’
‘Bike shop.’
‘I know a good one down by Centennial Park.’
They left the office and before long were once again whizzing along huge roads and highways full of huge cars. Watching him sucking on another cigarette, Les was trying to figure Hank out once more. Why bother buying a brand new bike unless you can absolutely afford it? Just to show Les he could if he wanted? And also, if he was so sour on the world, why bother inviting someone over to stay with you? Hank was a nice nut alright. Along with his lift not going to the top floor, Laurel Lee only had one oar in the water as well. They turned off the road at some fairly large, modern-looking bike shop. It was all glass front and tiles, with rows of gleaming, brand new bikes in the window set in the mandatory monster carpark; only this time there were ample trees and shade. Hank pulled up under a tree and switched off the motor.
‘Come in,’ he more or less commanded.
Norton shook his head. ‘It’s alright. I’ll wait in the car.’
Hank’s eyes went into turbo drive again. ‘What do you mean, you’ll wait in the car? Come inside and have a look at some decent bikes, for chrissake.’
Les shook his head again. ‘What do I want to look at bikes for? I already got one. I’d only be wasting my time.’
‘You’re not coming in?’
‘No. I’ll sit here and watch the punters. If you see a good pair of tiger skin lycra bike shorts in my size give me a yell. I might change my mind.’
Hank glared at Norton as if he couldn’t believe that Les would not only have the audacity to think for himself but almost disobey an order. He muttered something and stormed into the bike shop.
Nice try, Laurel baby, thought Les. But you’re going to have to get up a bit earlier than that. Yeah, I come in and it’s, Oh Les, I got a cheque coming next week; alright if I put this on your VISA card? Or, can you give me the cash till next week? Sorry, Hank. Besides, I’ve already given you a hundred, haven’t I? Norton sat patiently in the pick-up and waited. Half an hour later Les was thinking of trying to work the car radio
when Hank came out of the shop wheeling a light blue bike, with one five-speed gear lever. It had high, wide handlebars, a big soft- looking white seat and looked like a girl’s bike. Well, there goes my fifty, surmised Norton. I’d say he’s put that down and got on the murray for the rest.
‘That looks alright,’ lied Norton, getting out of the car. ‘What did you pay for it?’
‘Three hundred and fifty,’ replied Hank, trying to look cool. ‘It makes that pile of junk you bought look pretty sick.’
Norton checked it out. It didn’t look too solid and when Les came to the brand name he gave a double, triple blink. Painted on the frame was, Villawood Stylemaster. Designed in Italy for Clive Masters. Clive Masters was an Australian businessman who split Australia for America owing millions of dollars in debts. One of his last capers before he fled was bikes. He sold hundreds of them and they nearly all fell to pieces. Somehow Masters had got to America along with his shonky bikes and had started distributing them. Lucky yanks. And poor silly Hank had flummed one. If he so much as ran over an apple core lying on the footpath or hit an ant it’d probably fall apart.
‘You know what brand it is, Hank?’
Hank sounded very matter-of-fact. ‘It’s a Villawood. Italian racer. Clive Masters is the designer. Hey, I don’t buy shit.’
‘You’re a genius, Hank. I only hope I can keep up with you.’
‘I sure as hell won’t be dragging ass once we hit that beach.’
‘And like Deirdre and I always say. Have a lovely weekend.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Nothing, Hank. Nothing at all.’ Norton watched Hank carefully place his ‘Italian racer’ in the back, shook his head, then got in the front.
They drove back to Swamp Manor to get changed and pick up Norton’s bike. Les got into a daggy pair of training shorts he’d thrown in his bag, daggy sneakers, a T-shirt with no sleeves and an old sweatband; nothing he’d worry about losing or destroying. Although the condo thing was on his mind, Les was now looking forward to this pedal along the beach. He needed a good hit out and it might be a bit of a perv too. Plus, even if the water was murky and warm a swim after would be good too. For once Les thought he’d be on time and he was waiting outside for Hank next to the pick-up, his bike in the back. Hank arrived wearing a shirt, shorts and an old baseball cap.
‘We off?’ said Les.
Hank nodded. ‘Let’s go.’ He lit a cigarette and before long roads and bridges had gone past in the sunshine and they were at the same beach where they’d had a shower. Not a great deal of conversation went down, but at times Les got this weird feeling Hank was almost trying to be civil. Maybe he was worried his meal ticket was about to flutter out the door.
Hank parked the car under some pine trees, near an entrance to the beach. They got their bikes from the back and started pushing them along a sandy trail between more trees; again Les couldn’t believe how fine and white the sand was. The beach looked bigger than before too. When they came to the end of the trail, there was about a half-mile strip of sand to their right, on the left was at least five miles of dead flat sand, five hundred yards wide, before some flat rocks at the end. Another two hundred yards of dry sand sloped up towards the high-rises and buildings that ringed the beach. Between the punters either lying on or walking along the edge of the dry sand were shallow tidal pools hundreds of yards long. A gusty wind was coming straight in from the Gulf of Mexico, chopping up the water and pushing in a sloppy, chunder- ous two-foot wave the entire length of the beach. Somehow it reminded Norton of a cross between Surfers Paradise and St Kilda.
‘Well, what do you reckon, Hank?’ said Les. ‘We head for those rocks?’
Hank gave a weather eye and adjusted his baseball cap. He got on his bike, nodded, then like John Wayne leading the troops out of Fort Bravo started pedalling off towards the rocks in the distance.
Norton couldn’t believe how easy it was belting the old bike along the beach. The tyres were hard and dug in, it had heaps of weight and once you got it into top gear it skimmed across the firm wet sand like it was jet propelled. Norton hit the brakes and skidded all over the place. Look out America, he laughed to himself. Here comes Les Norton. BMX Bandit.
Hank, on the other hand, was pedalling slowly along like an old primary school teacher taking herself to church on Sunday. He wasn’t even in top gear and already he was doing it tough, plus he didn’t appear all that keen to get his shiny new ‘Italian’ racer splashed with salt water. Les watched him for a few moments then turned around and cruised up alongside.
‘So how’s it going, Hank?’
‘I’m doing just fine,’ puffed the American, wobbling along in second gear.
‘Yeah. That’s good.’ Norton pedalled along with him for a while through and around the people walking along the beach, but it didn’t take long to get punishingly boring, present company included. ‘Well, I might have a bit of fun. I’ll catch up with you towards those rocks.’ Hank didn’t reply as Norton slowed up and let him get a few yards in front.
Okay, thought Les. It’s mug lair time. Let’s see what this fifty dollar special can do. He threw the old bike into top gear, stood up on the pedals and zoomed past Hank like he was standing still. In no time Les was again whizzing along the beach, warm wind in his hair the tyres crackling and hissing almost musically as they zipped across the hard moist sand. There was a scattering of people walking past but spread out enough so you wouldn’t hit them. A little kid ran up on Norton’s left, Norton veered right, straight into a few inches of water washing across the beach. The old bike screamed across the incoming wave, spraying sea water in every direction and all over Les. Norton roared with delight as it splashed across his face and sunglasses. After that, Les just pedalled faster and faster, straight across every little wave rolling up along the beach, spraying more water everywhere. It was great, and nobody seemed to give a stuff. Les criss-crossed the beach then zoomed up onto the dryer sand where he’d noticed those tidal pools. They were luke warm and about a foot deep. Norton went through them like Wayne Gardner, and any people walking or sitting nearby got doused. He flogged the bike through the pools, along the beach then down the rise from the pools, flat out into the sea. The bike stopped dead in about a metre of water and Les would have done himself an injury only he flung himself over the handlebars to land flat on his back in the ocean, just managing to save his sunglasses as he did. Laughing like a loon, Norton picked up his bike from were it was lying in the water, climbed aboard and got going again. Norton was making a complete dill of himself and should have been thoroughly ashamed. He wasn’t: not in the least. While he was making a fool of himself, though, Les had been keeping an eye on Hank. He was back about half a kilometre and the rocks were a little closer than that in front now. Dripping with water, Les again turned back and pulled up alongside Hank. Boofhead’s face was starting to get a bit of colour up, and it wasn’t from the sun.
‘So how’s it goin’, Hank?’ asked Les.
‘I told you,’ puffed Hank. ‘I’m doing just fine.’
‘Yeah. It’s heaps of fun ain’t it? I told you to get yourself a bike.’
They pedalled along in silence, winding in and out of the punters. Hank seemed to be taking it all very seriously instead of just getting out and having a bit of fun. Norton got the feeling Hank was a bit allergic to any strenuous exercise. Despite their slow pace, Les noticed the rocks at the end getting closer.
‘Hey, Hank,’ he said. ‘Can your bike do this?’
‘What?’
‘Hang in there, Charlie Brown, and I’ll show you.’
Les took off his sunglasses and pedalled past Hank up the slope near the tidal pools, where he sat on his bike for a moment waiting for the water to recede. As soon as there was a washout, he jumped up on the pedals, slipped the old bike into top gear and belted down the slope across the wet sand, and with spray flying everywhere rode straight into the surf again. As soon as the waves hit, he jumped up, put one foot o
n the handlebars, another on the frame, then ‘hung five’ for about a second before somersaulting over the front of the bike onto his back. It wouldn’t have been enough to earn you a place in the stuntman’s Hall of Fame, but it was definitely enough to get you thrown off the beach for being a complete dill. Les picked himself and the bike up out of the water, shook the water off, then pedalled back to Hank.
There you go, Hank,’ said Les, water still dripping everywhere. That’s called a wombat-hang-five-with- tuck. Come on, let’s see you have a go.’ Hank ignored Les and pedalled along, trying to look as if he was above doing anything so stupid. Norton grinned at him. ‘Yeah, I thought so, Hank. You mightn’t be a tourist, but underneath you’re just another yuppie with a new toy.’ Les shook his head in disbelief. ‘Fair dinkum. What am I gonna do?’
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