Leaving Bondi

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘Read it walking out backwards?’

  ‘Yeah. They’ll think you’re walking in. Christ! They’re only journalists. They’re not rocket scientists.’

  Les hesitated for a moment then took the Wentworth Courier. ‘You’re right. Thanks, sarge.’

  This might just work, thought Les. They still don’t know for sure what I look like. Les opened the paper in front of him, and went out through the door backwards. The media scrum was still pushing and shoving each other all over the footpath like wild dogs round a dead sheep. Les went round them cooler than Michael Jackson moonwalking; straight into the front seat of a passing taxi. The taxi driver had thick black hair, a moustache and a cap pulled down around his ears.

  ‘Where to mite?’

  ‘Bondi. Cox Avenue. You know it?’

  ‘Sure I do,’ said the driver, setting the meter. ‘No worries mite.’

  Les settled back as the driver headed for Old South Head Road.

  ‘Hey, what you think about the bomb in Bondi todiy mite?’ said the driver.

  ‘What do I think about it?’ Hello. Here we go, thought Les. ‘I don’t think much about it at all. It’s … no good,’ he answered.

  ‘You know who done it. Don’t you, mite?’

  Les shook his head. ‘No. Who done it?’

  ‘The blackfellahs.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The bloody abos, mite.’

  ‘The abos?’

  ‘Yeah mite. Didn’t you see the bloke on the tivee the other night. Sayin’ burn all the place down for the Olympic games. This the start mite.’

  Les looked at the driver. ‘You could have something there. I never thought of that.’

  ‘Hey. I know I’m right, mister. Make it hard for me to get the quid now. Should send them all back where they come from, bastards.’

  ‘Come from? They come from here,’ said Les.

  The cab driver shook his head. ‘No. They come from New Guinea.’

  ‘Fair dinkum?’ said Les. ‘I’ve lived here all my life and I never knew that.’

  ‘It’s the truth, mite. Should send them all back. And Pauline Hanson with them.’

  Les stared at the cab driver. ‘She’s not an abo.’

  ‘No. She’s a pom. And they’s just as bad. Whinge, whinge, whinge. Allatime.’

  ‘You know,’ said Les. ‘You might just have something there … mite.’

  ‘Hey. I know what I’m talkin’ bout, mite. Don’t you worry.’

  The taxi pulled up outside Chez Norton. Les paid the driver and went inside. Fair dinkum. Somebody tell me I’m dreaming, thought Les, as he shut the door behind him.

  There were three messages on the answering machine. All from Eddie. Les listened to the last one and the phone rang again. It was Eddie.

  ‘Les. I’ve been trying to ring you. I just heard all this weird shit on the news. What the fuck’s goin’ on?’

  ‘What’s going on, Eddie,’ answered Les. ‘Some cunt put a bomb on the film set. And it went off just as I delivered that cake box.’

  ‘Fuckin hell! I don’t believe it,’ said Eddie. ‘So what happened to you?’

  ‘What happened to me? I got pinched. The cops think I did it. I just managed to get bail.’

  ‘You’re on bail? Ohh this is fuckin unbelievable.’

  ‘You can believe it all right, Eddie,’ said Les.

  Les told Eddie what happened. The police coming round to his house. Not believing what he told them and Price managing to squeeze bail for him.

  ‘And you didn’t mention me, Les. You wore the lot.’ Eddie was impressed. ‘Jesus, you’re staunch, mate.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, it’s not much good the two of us getting nicked,’ said Les. ‘You’re better off helping me out in the street.’

  ‘Hey. Don’t worry, Les. I’ll be doing everything I can.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Look. It’s not much good talking over the phone. How about I call round your place tomorrow morning? Early. About eight o’clock. That okay?’

  ‘Yeah. Good as gold.’

  ‘And don’t worry. We’ll sort this fuckin thing out somehow.’

  ‘I hope so, Eddie. Because I’m in deep fuckin shit.’

  Les hung up then thought he’d better ring Price.

  ‘Les. How are you mate?’ said Price. ‘Eddie rang me earlier. And I heard the news. What a gigantic balls-up.’

  ‘Unfortunately the cops don’t seem to think so, Price. They’ve charged me with everything but the Wanda Beach murders. I’d still be up there if it wasn’t for you. Thanks for that.’

  ‘That’s okay, Les. It’s the least I could do.’

  Les told Price what happened in the police station and how the cops weren’t too happy about letting him go.

  ‘So they’ve got me on a pretty heavy pinch, Price. After seeing the evidence, I don’t suppose you can blame them.’

  ‘Look, don’t worry, Les,’ said Price. ‘We’ll do our best to get you bail on Monday. If not we’ll appeal or some bloody thing. But we’ll work it out. My blokes are the best in the business.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘In the meantime, just hang in. And we’ll all get our heads together through the week and see what we can come up with.’

  ‘Okay Price. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Do that, Les. See you, mate.’

  ‘Yeah. See you, Price. Thanks again.’

  They’ll do their best to get me bail. Great, thought Les. That cop wasn’t joking when he said bring a toothbrush on Monday. Les shook his head in frustration. Why me? Why fuckin me? He went to the bathroom, cleaned the fingerprint dye off his hands and tidied himself up, then got a beer from the fridge and sat in the lounge drinking it, but not enjoying it. About half way through his beer, Les decided sitting around doing nothing wasn’t going to help. He had six lousy days to come up with something. So he’d better get his finger out and start asking questions. And there was a very plausible person not too far away who might know something. And if he didn’t, a bit of friendly persuasion might jog his memory.

  Les was just about to walk out the door when the phone rang. It was Warren, sounding very excited.

  ‘Les. It’s Warren. Are you there? Pick up.’

  Les reached across for the receiver. ‘Hello Warren. How’s things?’

  ‘How’s things?’ replied Warren. ‘Christ! I saw the news earlier. I’ve been trying to ring all night. What the fuck’s going on? What happened to the movie?’

  ‘What’s happened to the movie?’ answered Les. ‘It got blown up.’

  ‘Did you do it?’ said Warren bluntly.

  ‘No. I didn’t fuckin do it, Warren. It’s a frame-up.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Warren, I’ll give it to you straight,’ said Les. ‘I’ve been charged with murder.’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m out on bail till Monday. Then I go for a hearing and they’ll refuse bail when I front.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘So it looks like you’re going to have the house to yourself for a while.’

  ‘Fuck. This is unbelievable. I’d better come home now,’ said Warren.

  ‘No. Stay where you are,’ replied Les. ‘There’s no need to spoil your holiday.’

  ‘It’s spoiled already,’ answered Warren.

  ‘Yeahh. But there’s nothing you can do up here. Just be back by Monday to take me to court.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. Positive.’

  ‘All right. I’ll come home Saturday, Sunday morning at the latest. You’ve got my mobile number. If you need me or whatever, call me.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll do that, Warren.’

  ‘Shit! This is unbelievable.’

  ‘Yeah. Ain’t it. I’ll see you on the weekend, Woz.’

  ‘All right. See you then, Les.’

  Les hung up and looked at the phone. Good old Woz. I could think of worse blokes to be looking after the place while I’m
away. But I don’t need him around at the moment. If me and Eddie should have to drag someone back here for a few answers, I think Warren might get a little squeamish at the smell of burning flesh and blood all over the walls. Les finished his beer. Now, where was I? Out the door if I remember right.

  The Toriyoshi was closed when Les got there. So was the bottle shop. The front of the school was roped off with yellow police tape and there was a wagon parked in the driveway. The film crew had long packed up and gone; all that remained was the blackened shell of the catering van sitting near the fence. Mmmhh, mused Norton. Looks like the Gull’s flown off. I reckon there’s a chance he might be having a drink. And I know where Ray likes a cool one when he’s not in his chicken shack. C.C.’s.

  C.C.’s was a bar in Curlewis Street just near the TAB. It used to be a wine bar, but a young ex-bookmaker had just taken over and acquired a beer and spirits licence. It was family roomy, with a coloured sign out the front featuring a blinking cocktail glass, and inside was green carpet and green walls dotted with posters for Boags Stout, Caffreys Irish Ale and Jim Beam. Several fans spun under a latticework ceiling, and through an archway at the rear, bands performed on a small stage. There were plenty of stools and tables along the wall on the left as you walked in, the bar was on the right and the windows near the front door opened onto the street to let the smoke out. Les liked C.C.’s and used to pop in for a drink now and again. If C.C.’s had got its spirit licence before Les settled in at the Toriyoshi, he would have drunk there more often. The band had stopped playing and about thirty casually dressed punters were sitting or standing around having a drink when Les walked in the front door. The Gull was perched on a stool at the bar, dressed in a blue Hawaiian shirt, staring into a bourbon and Coke like he wished it was a deep, dark pool of water and he could have jumped in with a Mack gearbox wired to his neck.

  Les walked over and stood on Ray’s right. ‘Nnnyyhhh. So what’s happening the Gull? I’m glad you’re face isn’t looking like a six-month-old passionfruit, anyway.’

  Ray looked up and gave Norton a heavy double-blink from behind his steel-framed glasses. ‘Les? What are you? I mean …’

  ‘You mean, what am I doing here, Ray?’ replied Les. ‘I got bail. That’s what I’m doing here, Ray.’

  ‘You did? I mean. I heard on the news … Hey, what do I know about the news? That’s good, Les.’

  ‘Yes. It is. But you don’t look too good, Ray me old. What’s the matter?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ The Gull took a sip of bourbon then shook his head and went back to staring into his glass. ‘The police don’t know if somebody’s going to plant another bomb on the set so they’ve stopped the shoot. Nearly everyone on the set’s getting trauma counselling after seeing what was left of the cook. The rest got hit by flying debris. Max has pulled the pin. Simone’s pulled the pin. The whole gig’s over, man. Finished.’

  ‘Finished?’ said Les.

  ‘Yeah. It couldn’t sink any further if they buried it at sea. And I’m sunk with it.’

  ‘Back to Gullsville, Ray.’

  Ray nodded. ‘Yeah. Not a pot to piss in. Or a window to throw it out.’

  ‘Or a feather to fly with,’ suggested Les.

  ‘Right on, baby.’

  Ray had another mouthful of bourbon. Les caught the eye of a blonde barmaid in a white top and ordered a bourbon and unleaded for himself.

  ‘Well so much for Leaving Bondi, Ray,’ said Les, raising his glass. ‘It didn’t even get on the 380.’

  Ray shook his head. ‘I don’t even want to know about it, man. It’s turned out a complete bummer.’

  ‘What about my lazy fifty, Ray? I imagine that left Bondi all right. Never to return.’

  ‘It might be covered by insurance, Les.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Les had a sip of bourbon. ‘Look, Ray, no matter what you’re thinking, I didn’t set the bomb off.’

  ‘Hey Les, that didn’t even enter my head, man,’ the Gull assured Norton.

  ‘But the cops think I did. And I’m in deep shit. So I need some information, Ray.’

  ‘Sure Les. How can I help?’

  ‘I need the Tom Thumb on that cook. Albert Knox. What do you know about him?’

  ‘What do I know about him?’ Ray blinked helplessly behind his glasses. ‘Shit, Les. I don’t know that much about him at all.’

  After being grilled at Waverley Police Station for hours in a pair of handcuffs, Norton wasn’t wearing his happy hat. ‘Well you must know some fuckin thing, Ray,’ he said. ‘Christ! You knew his name when I asked about him before. You’re both in the fuckin food game.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. I’m with you, man.’ Ray thought for a second. ‘All right. He got the catering job on the movie off his own bat. I didn’t do anything for him there. He … he lives … I mean, he lived in Darlinghurst. He shared a flat there with some guys.’

  ‘Darlinghurst?’

  ‘Yeah. I heard he was into some weird gay scene.’

  ‘Weird gay scene?’ said Les.

  Ray nodded. ‘Yeah. He’s bi. I know that. Was. Whatever.’

  ‘So Albert was AC/DC was he?’

  ‘Yeah. Bowled underarm. Look, the bloke you should talk to is Brett Rittosa.’

  ‘Brett Rittosa? Who’s he?’

  ‘Brett and Albert used to be partners in a restaurant at Glebe. The word is, Albert ripped Brett off for a lot of money.’

  ‘Did he now? That’s interesting. So where do I find this Brett Rittosa rooster?’

  ‘In rooster territory, Les,’ smiled Ray. ‘He runs a takeaway breakfast kitchen in Bondi Junction. Near the entrance to the railway station at the back of the mall. It’s called Brett’s Brekky.’

  ‘Brett’s Brekky. I might have seen it.’

  ‘Yeah. He does sausage sandwiches. BLTs. Coffee, whatever. For people on their way to work. It’s only a small business. He doesn’t make a lot of money.’

  Les had a swallow of bourbon and looked at the Gull over his glass. ‘What time’s he open?’

  ‘Six o’clock in the morning. He closes about eleven.’

  Les had a think for a moment as the band came back on. ‘All right. Thanks, Ray,’ he said, finishing his drink. ‘That’s a start. I’ll go and see him first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Okay. And Brett’s not a bad bloke either. He’s done it tough.’

  ‘Ain’t we all.’ Les looked directly at the Gull for a moment. ‘Hey Ray. All jokes aside, who do you think did it? You got any ideas?’

  Ray shook his head despondently. ‘Les, I haven’t got a clue, man. I still can’t believe it’s happened, to be honest. The karma on that set was beautiful. Just perfect. Now this.’ Ray shook his head again. ‘All I can say is, that Knox cat must’ve been toting some heavy vibes, man.’

  ‘Right,’ nodded Les. ‘That definitely makes sense, Ray. Oh, have you heard from Max King and the rest of them?’

  ‘No. Max had split from the set when I went round. The others haven’t called me yet. I can’t even find my business partner.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I’ll see you, Ray.’

  ‘Yeah. See you, Les.’ Ray stared back into his bourbon as Les stepped round the other drinkers in C.C.’s and out the door.

  Back home, Les had a shower then changed into a clean white T-shirt and a pair of shorts. He got a beer from the fridge and took it into the lounge room to sit and have a quiet think. Unexpectedly, he felt dog tired. Instead of his mind racing at a thousand miles an hour, it was almost blank. All Les could think was, one minute you’re up there laughing your head off and life’s a bowl of cherries, next thing it’s the absolute bloody pits. He ran his eyes around the house at all the creature comforts he enjoyed — along with Warren — and how you take things for granted. Now in six short days he could lose the lot. Along with his freedom for probably the rest of his life. And this time he hadn’t done anything. Les looked at the bar and all the bottles of choice booze sitting there. An idea would be to get pissed out of his brain a
nd blot everything out. Then climb up in the roof, get Warren’s pot and stone himself into the netherworld with the stereo blasting. Instead, Les finished his beer and went to bed. He intended being up nice and early in the morning and hitting the ground running. He slipped a Steely Dan CD into the stereo in his bedroom, lay back and closed his eyes. By the time ‘Aja’ had cut out, Norton was in a deep, dark sleep.

  Les was out of bed around six. Outside it was cold and the previous day’s breeze had turned to a biting sou’westerly. He made some tea and sipped it over a toasted sandwich while he listened to the news. The bombing was the lead story and Norton’s name was mentioned; Les finished his sandwich and couldn’t wait to read about it in the papers. He got into a pair of jeans, black desert boots and a black leather jacket and drove up to Bondi Junction. The traffic was light and he had no trouble finding a parking spot in Oxford Street around from Newland. He locked the car and walked across to the mall.

  Brett’s Brekky was a white kiosk with a shutter front and matching awning, in the middle of the walkway near the Grafton Street entrance to the railway station. Les stood back amongst the people hurrying for the trains and checked out the owner and his female assistant. He was lean, with a grainy face and brown hair receding in the front, and had that look of tired humour in his eyes people get after working all their life to get nowhere before finally accepting what life has thrown up. He was wearing white jeans and a white T-shirt with a blue bib and brace and a butcher’s apron tied in the front. His dark-haired helper was wearing the same. The owner was cooking food on a small stove next to a coffee urn while the girl was buttering toast; there was one customer. A metal step led up to the back door. Les walked over and knocked lightly on the side of the kiosk.

  ‘Are you Brett Rittosa?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, that’s me,’ replied the proprietor, glancing up from a frypan full of sausages. ‘I suppose you’re from the taxation department?’

  ‘No,’ answered Les. ‘Quite the opposite. In fact I’d like to give you some money.’

  ‘What?’ Brett looked up again. ‘Yeah, that’d be right.’